S.  EDWIN  CORLE.  JR.  p^     •• 

HIS   BOOK *     " 


THE  LIBRARY" 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
EDWIN  CORLE 

PRESENTED  BY 
JEAN  CORLE 


WHAT  OUTFIT,   BUDDY? 


SHE  KISSED  ME  SMACK  ON  THE  CHEEK  AND  SAID  HER  NAME  WAS 
LOUISE 


What  Outfit 
Buddy? 


BY 
T.  HOWARD  KELLY 

FORMERLY    PRIVATE   IN  THE    26TH    DIVISION   A.E.F. 


Illustrated 


Harper  &  Brothers  Publishers 
New   York  and  London 


WHAT  OUTFIT  BUDDY? 

Copyright  i920,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

Pnnted  ,n  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  February,  1920 


TO 

"PEG" 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  "WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY?" 1 

II.  "AVEY  Vous  DE  CHAMBRE?" 18 

III.  "THAT  MULE  WAS  A  SLACKER" 35 

IV.  "SUNNY  FRANCE!" 51 

V.  WE  WAS  OFF  FOR  THE  FRONT! 60 

VI.  AMERICAN  JOANS  OF  ARC 72 

VII.  THE  FIRST  Bia  BATTLE  OF  THE  GUERRE        .     .  79 

VIII.  " GUESS  I  DIDN'T  HAVE  THE  GUTS"    ....  92 

IX.  "THE  OLD  VAN  SEEZEUM  ON  ITS  WAY"  ...  101 

X.  CHATEAU-THIERRY 107 

XI.  A  CRAW  DE  GUERRE 133 

XII.  O.  D.  MEETS  JIMMY'S  GANG 144 

XIII.  "WE'RE  COIN'  TO  TAKE  METZ"      .     .     .     .     .  158 

XIV.  "WELL,  WE'RE  HERE" 166 

XV.  PINCHING  OFF  THE  ST.-MIHIEL  SALIENT     .     .     .  173 

XVI.  BEYOND  VERDUN 186 

XVII.  "FINEE!    LA  GUERRE  FINEE!"  199 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

SHE  KISSED  ME  SMACK  ON  THE  CHEEK  AND  SAID 

HER  NAME  WAS  LOUISE Frontispiece 

'"TAKE  THAT  HAT  OFF.  IT  ISN'T  REGULATION,' 

SAYS  THE  SECOND  LOOEY  TO  ME"  .  .  .  Facing  p.  126 

"MAKE  FRIENDS  WITH  THE  COOTIES.  THEN 

YOU'RE  ALL  SET" "  148 

"WANT  TO  GET  A  PICTURE  OF  O.  D.'s  GRAVE"       "       200 

"A  BEARDED  POILU  CAME  TEARING  OUT  OF  A 
RUINED  HOUSE,  WAVING  A  BOTTLE  OVER  His 
HEAD"  .  "  208 


AGEEAT  many  impressionable  young  men 
who  become  soldiers  overnight  and  go 
to  war  feel  strongly  inspired  to  write  books 
about  their  adventures.  I  felt  the  same  way 
before  the  newness  of  the  life  on  the  west- 
ern front  had  been  rubbed  away  by  constant 
friction  with  some  of  the  more  monotonous 
things  of  war,  such  as  hunger,  cold,  mud, 
cooties,  and  other  romance-destroying  agents. 
I  buried  the  idea  of  writing  a  book  just  be- 
fore my  division  was  called  upon  to  stand 
between  the  Boches  and  Paris  during  the 
trying  days  of  July  and  August  of  1918.  It 
is  very  good  for  me  that  I  detached  myself 
from  the  desire  to  write  a  war  book  about 
that  time.  Experience  proved  that  it  was 
necessary  to  give  all  my  available  time  to 
the  business  of  fighting  the  guerre. 

The  book-bug  never  came  my  way  again, 
for  I  do  not  look  upon  What  Outfit, 
Buddy?  as  the  result  of  answering  some 
insistent,  invisible  summons  to  write  a  war 
book.  I  did  not  intend  writing  a  war  book 
when  I  started  the  first  line  of  What  Out- 
fit, Buddy?  I  merely  hoped  to  let  Jimmy 
McGee,  a  real,  regular  fighting  Yank  who 
has  seen  his  share  of  la  guerre,  tell  the  story 
of  the  things  that  he  encountered  as  a  mem- 
ber of  the  American  Expeditionary  Force. 


I  sincerely  trust  that  my  original  intentions 
have  carried. 

If  I  have  allowed  Jimmy  McGee  to  tell  you 
his  story,  then  I  have  fulfilled  my  hopes,  for 
I  believe  that  Jimmy  McGee 's  story  of  the 
war  is  merely  the  universal  version  of  the 
great  adventure  as  held  by  legions  of  his 
comrades. 

In  my  effort  to  let  Jimmy  tell  his  story  1 
have  not  tried  to  use  book  language.  I 
have  used  to  the  best  of  my  ability  the  speech 
of  men  who  became  a  real  integral  part  of 
the  guerre  ......  To  do  that  it  was  neces- 
sary to  let  Jimmy  and  his  comrades  speak 
French  in  the  manner  of  American  soldiers. 
I  tried  to  register  the  true  value  of  their 
struggles  with  the  difficult  French  language 
by  resorting  to  phonetic  spelling  in  the  case 
of  practically  all  French  words  which  have 
become  a  part  of  the  American  Expeditionary 
Forces'  vocabulary.  Students  of  the  beau- 
tiful, musical  language  of  France  will,  I  trust, 
grant  me  this  indulgence,  as  I  have  taken  the 
liberties  only  in  the  desire  to  tell  America  how 
its  fighting  men  overcame  the  difficulties  pre- 
sented by  living  side  by  side  with  a  people 
who  spoke  a  foreign  language. 

T.  HOWARD  KELLY. 


WHAT  OUTFIT,   BUDDY? 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 


CHAPTER  I 


"WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY?" 

JIMMY  McGEE,  hanging  on  to  a  long,  lean 
loaf  of  brown  bread  with  his  left  hand 
and  swinging  a  heavy,  dangerous-looking 
cane  in  his  right  grip,  moved  leisurely  over 
a  white  road  of  France  toward  the  four- 
year-old  battlelines  that  stretched  between 
Verdun  and  Saint-Mihiel. 

McGee,  himself,  was  camouflaged  beneath 
an  assortment  of  things  and  stuff  that  would 
have  made  Panhandle  Pete  of  funny-paper 
fame  look  like  a  smartly  dressed  gentleman 
in  comparison.  His  make-up  was  not  cal- 
culated to  allow  observers  much  chance  to 
criticize  his  own  physical  attributes  or  fail- 
ings. 

A  bit  of  reddish-brown  hair  managed  to 
crop  up  in  sundry  places  outside  the  distorted 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

corners  of  the  clownish  thing  that  had  been 
issued  him  in  the  name  of  an  overseas  cap. 
The  part  of  his  shirt  collar  that  almost  swal- 
lowed his  ears  and  chin  came  very  near  hid- 
ing his  freckled  snub  nose.  But  it  didn't. 
The  nose  insisted  on  protruding  enough  to 
be  seen.  Jimmy's  eyes,  alone,  were  open  and 
ready  for  inspection.  Any  one  might  have 
guessed  the  nationality  of  his  ancestors  by 
the  laughing  blue  of  his  eyes.  What  could 
be  seen  of  his  features  hinted  that  he  owned 
a  strong,  good-looking  face.  Perhaps  his  long 
length  of  wide  limb  would  have  given  him 
Borne  individuality  among  a  gang  of  six-foot- 
ers, for  he  was  exceptionally  tall.  Unfor- 
tunately his  height  was  lost  in  the  bulk  of 
war-like  paraphernalia  that  jangled  from 
countless  straps,  ropes,  and  belts.  Otherwise 
his  identity  was  completely  blanketed. 

Nobody,  except  one  of  his  own  kind,  would 
have  ever  recognized  him  as  an  American 
soldier.  He  was  a  sad  departure  from  all 
that  Army  regulations  and  magazine  covers 
had  insisted  upon  as  a  typical  member  of  the 
"best  dressed  and  best  fed  army"  in  the 
world.  Most  likely  Jimmy's  own  mother 
would  have  passed  him  up  as  a  straying 
peddler.  Perhaps  Sergeant  George  Neil, 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

McGee's  pal  and  bunkie,  might  have  recog- 
nized him  by  the  stout,  strong-muscled  legs 
which  were  swathed  in  muddy  war-putees, — 
that  ended  in  a  final  strip  of  thin  raglings 
below  his  knees, — and  moved  in  an  easy-going 
stride  peculiar  to  his  own  ideas  of  speed. 

However  strange  and  disillusioning,  Pri- 
vate, 1st  Class,  Jimmy  McGee  may  have  ap- 
peared to  the  men  who  designed  the  uniform 
and  equipment  of  American  soldiers,  there 
was  nothing  about  the  boy  to  distinguish  him 
apart  from  thousands  of  comrades  in  soiled 
and  torn  olive-drab,  who  had  come  out  of 
the  Chateau-Thierry  rackett  with  their  ap- 
preciation for  neatly  made  packs  and  dress- 
parade  tactics  all  shot  to  hell. 

Appearances  had  long  since  ceased  to  count 
in  his  young  life.  He  had  forgotten  all  of 
the  old  0.  D.  stuff,  after  discovering  that 
''squads  right"  and  saluting  could  never  win 
a  guerre.  Consequently  Jimmy  ambled  along, 
loaded  down  to  the  hubs  under  a  confusion 
of  equipment  and  souvenirs  that  he  had  col- 
lected from  three  fronts  during  the  past  eight 
months,  without  a  thought  of  anything,  ex- 
cept the  heighth  of  the  hill  that  he  was  climb- 
ing and  the  emptiness  of  his  stomach.  The 
fact  that  he  didn't  know  just  exactly  where 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

he  was,  or  where  his  outfit  might  be,  wasn't 
causing  him  any  worries.  He  had  been  sep- 
arated from  the  battery  too  many  times 
already  and  this  latest  separation  was  only 
twenty-four  hours  old, — a  mere  trifle  to  Jim- 
my McGee. 

"Lost — strayed — and  stolen — Guess  I'm  all 
three  of  'em — tons  ensemble,  as  the  Frogs 
would  rattle  in  that  darn  machine  gun  lan- 
guage of  theirs,"  muttered  McGee  as  he 
shifted  the  weight  of  a  blanket  roll  that 
looked  as  if  it  contained  a  Baby  Grand  piano 
and  a  fat-legged  stool. 

"Well,  I'll  find  the  outfit  before  the  guerre 
encores,  anyhow.  If  I  don't  I'll  turn  myself 
in  for  salvage — anythin'  to  keep  from  bem' 
an  M.  P.  or  gettin'  in  the  Quartermaster 
Corps.  Those  guys  don't " 

Honk!  .  ,   .    Honk!  .   .   .     Honk!  .   .    . 

Jimmy  shut  his  mouth  and  got  himself  off 
of  the  road,  just  in  time  to  miss  being  pressed 
into  an  old-fashioned  pancake  under  the 
wheels  of  a  truck  that  whizzed  by  like  an 
Austrian  88. 

"Great  Gods!"  I'd  rather  promenade 
along  the  top  of  a  trench  in  broad  daylight 
than  leave  my  life  in  the  hands  of  those  fool 
truck-drivers.  They  ain't  got  a  bit  of  respect 

4 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

for  a  man's  body — ought  to  let  'em  drive  a 
tank  across  No  Man's  Land  under  a  barrage 
once  or  twice — maybe  then  they'd  quit  tryin* 
to  kill  us  poor  guys  that's  fightin'  this 
guerre." 

McGee  thought  some  pretty  hard  things 
about  truck  drivers  in  general  after  getting 
that  load  off  his  chest  and  started  to  make 
another  hill,  being  careful  to  hang  close  to 
the  side  of  the  road. 

"What  outfit,  Buddy?" 

Jimmy  McGee  stopped  still  in  his  tracks, 
steadied  himself  against  his  cane  to  keep  from 
rolling  back  down  the  steep  hill,  and  shook 
himself  so  roughly  before  answering  that  the 
tinware,  brass,  steel  and  other  whatnots 
which  were  a  part  of  his  baggage  made  a 
noise  like  the  cows  coming  home. 

"Twenty-Sixth  Division,  Jack,"  he  shot 
back,  as  if  he  were  putting  over  a  little  bar- 
rage all  by  himself. 

Then  he  advanced  cautiously  to  inspect  the 
strange-looking  person  who  had  asked  him 
the  old  familiar  question.  For  a  passing 
moment  Jimmy  was  pretty  sure  that  the  old 
gas  had  got  to  his  eyes  at  last,  or  that  his 
thoughts  were  getting  the  best  of  him.  Surely 
the  man  who  sat  on  the  grass  and  was  all 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

rigged  up  like  the  soldiers  in  the  Sunday 
papers  and  popular  monthlies,  must  be  a 
model — A  sort  of  guide  or  index  for  his  kind, 
thought  Jimmy. 

At  last,  after  what  seemed  ten  years  to 
the  waiting,  strange  one,  the  dust-sprinkled 
Yank  said  outloud,  more  to  himself  than  any- 
one else,  ilOui — it  moves  and  breathes — guess 
it's  real — take  a  chance,  anyhow."  Then  to 
the  object  of  his  remarks:  "What  outfit, 
yourself,  old  man?" 

"None — that  is,  so  far,"  was  the  astonish- 
ing answer,  made  in  a  voice  that  hadn't  taken 
on  the  tone  of  confidence  which  Jimmy  knew 
well  could  only  be  found  out  where  he  and  a 
bunch  of  his  side-kickers  had  been  living  dur- 
ing the  past  few  months. 

"Well— that's  a  hell  of  a  good  outfit  to 
belong  to.  Guess  you  ain't  bothered  with 
second  lieutenants  much  then,  eh?"  queried 
Jimmy,  pushing  his  shapeless  roll  over  his 
head  and  letting  it  fall  to  the  earth  with  a 
thud. 

"How  do  you  mean — worried?"  asked  the 
wondering  man,  whose  appearance  brought 
back  memories  of  the  hated  0.  D.  days  to 
Jimmy. 

"Oh,  yon  never  had  many  of  'em  hangin' 

6 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

around  you  for  salutes,  givin'  foolish  com- 
mands that  ought  to  be  listed  with  dead  let- 
ters in  the  office  at  Washington.  That's  what 
I'm  gettin'  at  ...  Get  me,  now?'1 

A  gas-mask,  two  bulging  musettes,  the  bot- 
tom of  a  mess-kit,  and  a  French  canteen  were 
thrown  to  the  ground.  McGee's  great  heighth 
began  to  assert  itself.  He  stretched  his  long 
arms  and  shook  a  case  of  field-glasses  and  a 
German  luger  aloose  from  their  insecure  at- 
tachments to  his  left  shoulder  straps. 

"Yes,  I  see  now.  No,  can't  say  that  I've 
minded  them  so  much  as  I  haven't  been  in 
the  Army  long,"  replied  Jimmy's  roadside 
find. 

"So,"  muttered  Jimmy  reflectively.  "Say, 
when  in  hell  did  you  enlist  anyway?" 

"I  didn't — I  was  drafted,"  answered  0.  D., 
as  McGee  had  already  mentally  nicknamed 
the  man  in  front  of  him. 

"Oui — Oui — I  compree,"  said  the  product 
of  eight  months  in  the  mud  and  rain  of  the 
Western  Front,  nodding  his  head  affirma- 
tively. 

Silence  for  a  moment  and  then  Jimmy  said 
what  was  on  his  mind. 

"Say,  how  does  it  feel  to  be  that  way  bud- 
dy? It  don't  bother  you  at  nights  does  it?" 
7 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

"Don't  quite  understand  you,"  stammered 
the  product  of  General  Crowder's  machine. 

"Pas  compree,  eh?  Just  like  a  French- 
man when  he  don't  want  to  give  you  what 
you  want,"  answered  Jimmy.  "Well  I'll  try 
to  shoot  away  the  camouflage  this  time. 
Don't  you  ever  wish  that  you'd  enlisted!" 

"Sure — I  wanted  to  enlist  when  the  war 
first  started  but  my  Dad  had  just  died  and 
he  didn't  leave  much;  not  enough  to  pay  his 
funeral  expenses.  My  mother  has  always 
been  sickly  and  Mary  hadn't  finished  her 
business-schooling  yet.  I  had  to  work  like  the 
deuce  to  keep  things  going —  Then  I  was 
drafted." 

"That's  just  the  way  with  this  damn 
army,"  interrupted  Jimmy  sympathetically. 
"They  do  everything  like  the  French,  back- 
wards. "Why  the  devil  couldn't  they  have 
let  you  stay  home  and  take  care  of  your 
mother  and  Mary?  There's  enough  of  us  big 
hams  without  any  cares  to  fight  this  war. 
Who  is  Mary,  your  sister?"  asked  Jimmy 
bluntly;  but  he  meant  to  be  gentle. 

"Yes,  she  is  my  sister;  only  nineteen.  Two 
years  younger  than  me,"  explained  the 
drafted  man. 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

" How's  Mary  and  your  ma  makin*  it 
now?"  was  Jimmy's  next  question. 

" Mary's  finished  business  school  and  has 
a  good  job.  I  make  a  twenty-dollar  allot- 
ment, and  my  mother  gets  twenty-five  dollars 
from  the  Government  along  with  that. 
They're  doing  pretty  good  now,  so  their  let- 
ters tell  me,"  was  the  frank  response. 

Jimmy  sat  down  next  to  the  recruit  and 
started  to  hack  off  a  couple  of  slices  of  bread 
according  to  the  French  way  of  doing  it.  He 
gave  him  a  slice. 

"Slap  some  of  this  confiture  on  it,"  point- 
ing to  a  tin  of  jam.  "You  won't  mind  if  I 
call  you  0.  D.,  will  you?" 

"No;  but  what  makes  you  want  to  call  me 
that?  My  right  name's  William  G.  Preston." 

"Damn  glad  to  know  you,  Bill,"  said  Jim- 
my, shooting  out  his  right  hand;  "but  about 
this  0.  D.  stuff?" 

"What's  that  gold  stripe  on  your  sleeve 
for?"  gasped  Bill.  "Have  you  been  over 
here  six  months?"  was  the  amazing  question. 

"Oui,  but  that's  a  wound  stripe  on  the 
right  sleeve — this  is  the.  sleeve  for  service 
chevrons,"  and  McGee  exhibited  two  greasy 
and  rumpled  service  chevrons. 

Bill  gasped  a  second  time.     "Why,  you've 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

been  here  twelve  months.  You  must  have 
come  over  on  the  first  troop-ship.  ]Where 
and  how  were  you  wounded?" 

The  questions  were  coming  too  fast  for 
Jimmy  McGee.  He  reached  for  his  gas-mask 
and  tin  hat. 

"Hold  it  a  minute  till  I  get  my  wind — 
all  right.  I've  heen  here  twelve  months — I'm 
sure  o'  that.  No,  I  didn't  come  over  on  the 
first  troop-ship.  I  sailed  over  on  the  first 
mule-ship — one  of  those  twenty-three-day-at- 
sea-affairs.  In  those  days  we  didn't  have 
separate  stalls  for  the  mules  and  men.  Every- 
body and  every  thin'  cushayed  together  down 
in  the  hold — except  the  officers,  of  course." 

"I  came  over  in  eight  days,  and  on  a  big 
liner —  A  mule-ship — uuggh!"  shuddered  Wil- 
liam G.  Preston,  soon  to  be  regenerated  under 
the  name  of  0.  D.  "But  where  did  you  get 
wounded,  and  how?" 

"I  got  it  in  the  calf  of  the  leg — fragment 
from  high  explosive  that  the  Heinies  were 
rainin'  down  the  night  we  staged  a  battle 
at  Seicheprey — first  fight  of  the  guerre  for 
the  Americans,  you  know,"  asserted  McGee, 
solemnly.  "I  only  got  a  little  tear  in  the 
muscle.  Poor  old  Gordon,  my  pal,  he  got  his 
left  shoulder  and  part  of  his  head  torn  off. 
10 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

He  died  quick,  though;  didn't  suffer  much. 
They  gave  his  folks  the  D.  S.  C.,  as  he  did 
some  big  hero  stuff.  But  that  ain't  gettin* 
Frank  much,'*  soliloquized  the  veteran  of 
Seicheprey,  reminiscently. 

Jimmy  saw  that  Preston  was  getting  too 
interested  and  might  ask  for  a  story  about  the 
war,  so  he  directed  traffic  in  another  direc- 
tion. 

"You  didn't  give  me  a  chance  to  tell  you 
why  I  want  to  call  you  0.  D.  Now,  you  see, 
we  call  anything  that  is  regulation,  red  tape, 
and  all  that  kind  of  stuff,  0.  D. — just  a  sort 
of  nickname.  When  I  first  saw  you  I  thought 
you  was  a  soldier  out  of  the  drill-regulation 
book  or  a  model  for  some  magazine  artist. 
You  see,  you're  all  made  up  accordin*  to  the 
blue-print.  Carry  your  blankets  just  so ;  wear 
your  cap  at  a  right  slant;  got  your  blouse 
buttoned  up.  Hell  fire!  you're  0.  D.-lookin', 
that's  all.  You're  the  first  of  that  kind  I've 
seen  in  a  mighty  long  time,  so  I'm  going  to 

call  you  0.  D From  now  on  you're 

O.  D Compree?" 

"Have  it  your  way.  What's  your  name?" 
asked  0.  D. 

"McGee.  Jimmy,  most  of  the  gang  calls 
me.  Do  the  same." 

11 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

"All  right,  Jimmy." 

"You  say  you're  a  replacement?" 

"Yes.  I  arrived  in  Bar-le-Duc  yesterday 
with  a  detail  and  got  separated  from  it.  The 
A.  P.  M.  told  me  to  take  this  road  and  keep 
on  going  until  I  located  my  regiment,"  ex- 
plained O.  D. 

"Got  lost,  myself,  last  night,"  admitted 
Jimmy.  "What  outfit  are  you  goin'  to!" 

"The  One  Hundred  and  Third  Field  Ar- 
tillery. What  division  is  that?"  0.  D.'s 
question  was  drowned  under  Jimmy's 
whoop. 

"Well,  I'm  a  son-of-a-gun !  That's  my  own 
outfit — Twenty-sixth,  Yankee  Division,  of 
course,"  shouted  McGee  as  he  slapped  0.  D. 
across  his  shoulders.  "What  the  hell  do  you 
know  about  that!  I'll  get  you  assigned  to 
my  battery.  Shake,  old  man,  we'll  fight  the 
rest  of  this  guerre  together." 

Jimmy's  words,  and  the  bread  and  jam 
that  the  Yankee  Division  V  handed  out,  did 
a  lot  to  send  the  spirits  of  0.  D.  shooting  up 
the  ladder  of  hope.  Perhaps  the  war  and  the 
front  wasn't  going  to  be  so  terrible,  after  all 
he  had  read  about  it.  Surely  not,  if  it  had  a 
bunch  of  fellows  up  there  like  Jimmy  McGee, 
thought  0.  D. 

12 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

"Gosh,  I  was  hungry!  This  stuff  is  saving 
my  life,"  admitted  0.  D.,  gladly,  as  he  left 
trailing  evidence  of  the  confiture  around  the 
corners  of  his  lips.  "Since  I  got  lost  from 
my  detail  last  night  I  haven't  had  a  thing 

to  eat I  can't  talk  this  French,  so  I 

was  out  of  luck  for  breakfast.  I  was  just 
thinking  about  breaking  into  this  stuff" — and 
he  showed  his  emergency  rations  of  "corned 
willy"  and  hardtack — "but  the  officer  told  me 
that  I  was  not  to  touch  them  unless  it  was 
a  case  of  absolute  emergency,"  concluded 
0.  D. 

"Bon — tres-beans!  Take  his  advice,  boy: 
never  touch  that  stuff  unless  you  are  up 
against  it  mighty  hard.  Just  a  little  of  that 
embalmed  mule  will  kill  any  good  man.  Guess 
my  stomach  got  used  to  it,  as  I've  been  eatin' 
it  for  damn  near  six  months  straight.  I'll  get 
us  a  regular  feed  when  we  hit  a  village  to- 
night. Leave  it  to  me." 

"Can  you  talk  this  lingo?"  asked  0.  D.,  as 
if  it  were  beyond  possibilities  to  juggle  the 
language  of  the  French  around  on  an  Ameri- 
can tongue. 

"Oui,  not  beaucoup.  Cum  see — cum  "saw," 
he  replied,  indicating  a  very  little  bit  by  his 
hands.  "But  I  can  parley  enough  to  get  a 

13 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

feed  and  a  place  to  cushay.  You  know  cushay 
means  sleep  and  monjay  means  eat.  That's 
about  all  you  got  to  know.  And  combien — 
that's  how  much.  They'll  tell  you  that  toot 
sweet." 

"How  the  dickens  do  I  get  a  drink  of 
water? — I'm  about  dying  of  thirst.  Haven't 
had  a  drop  of  water  in  three  days,  since  we 
left  the  replacement  camp." 

"Oh,  my  God,  man!  You're  in  the  wrong 
place  to  get  water.  The  French  don't  use 
that  stuff  at  all.  They  think  we're  nuts  when 
we  ask  for  water  to  drink.  You  got  to  get 
used  to  that  vinegar  that  they  call  van  llano 
or  van  rouge.  Here,  take  a  swig  of  this 
stuff."  Jimmy  unscrewed  the  cork  from  his 
French  canteen  and  oifered  it  to  0.  D. 

"What's  in  it?" 

"Oh,  some  of  their  old,  rotten  van  rouge — 
red  wine,  you  know.  But  it's  better  than 
nothin'." 

0.  D.  took  a  swallow,  made  a  hard  face  and 
let  a  little  more  go  down,  then  he  handed  it 
back  with  the  remark  that  it  was  sour. 

"Oui,  but  say  la  guerre.  Gotta  get  used 
to  that  stuff,  I  guess,"  and  he  nearly  drained 
the  canteen.  "Smoke?"  he  asked,  pulling  out 
a  package  of  bruised  Lucky  Strikes. 

14 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

"No,  thanks." 

"You'll  get  the  habit  after  you've  been  up 
with  us  awhile.  Notlrin'  like  a  cigarette,  boy, 
in  them  damp  dugouts  when  you're  waitin' 
for  some  party  to  come  off." 

After  the  old  blue  smoke  began  to  issue 
from  his  mouth  and  nostrils  Jimmy  felt  a 
bit  talkative. 

"So  you  goin'  to  be  an  artilleryman,  eh?" 

"Yes;  but  the  funny  thing  is  that  I'm  an 
infantryman — that  is,  they  trained  me  in  that 
kind  of  stuff.  I  never  was  on  a  horse  in  my 
life.  Never  saw  a  real  cannon,  either,"  an- 
swered 0.  D. 

"Can  that  stuff.  You  don't  need  to  know 
anythin'  about  ridin'  a  horse  in  this  man's 
army.  I  joined  the  artillery  to  keep  from 
walkin'  and  I've  been  walkin'  most  of  the 
time  since  I  enlisted.  We  never  saw  a  can- 
non, except  those  pea-shooters  we  had  back 
in  the  States,  until  we  hit  France.  Just 
goes  to  show  how  this  army's  bein'  run.  They 
send  you  up  to  the  artillery  and  you  were 
trained  for  infantry.  Soon  they'll  be  sendin* 
up  submarine-chasers  for  caissons,"  declared 
McGee. 

"Say,  Jimmy,  wish  you'd  tell  me  something 
2  15 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

about   the   front,    so   I'll   know   how    to   act 
when  I  get  there,"  pleaded  0.  D. 

"Ah,  forget  that  front  idea.  You'll  never 
know  the  difference — unless,  of  course,  you 
get  a  fistfull  of  shrapnel  in  the  face  or  a 
bellyful  of  gas.  Course,  that  makes  it  dif- 
ferent." 

"Shrapnel!  Gas!  Gee,  those  are  bad 
actors  up  there,  I  heard.  Is  it  raining  shrap- 
nel all  the  time,  and  does  the  gas  come  over 
every  day,  or  what?"  asked  O.  D.  kind  of 
hopelessly. 

"No,  it  ain't  nothin'  like  that,  O.  D.  There 
ain't  no  flags  flyin'  or  music  playin'  when 
the  boys  go  over  the  top,  either.  You're 
liable  to  get  a  down-pour  of  shrapnel,  a  shell- 
burst,  or  a  bunch  of  gas  any  old  time. 
There's  no  set  rules  for  the  way  that  stuff 
comes  over — sorta  like  goin'  to  business 
every  day  after  you  get  used  to  it.  A  man 
gets  accustomed  to  stayin'  up  all  night  and 
jugglin'  ninety-five  pound  shells,  firm'  a  piece, 
or  rammin'  bayonets  in  Boche  pigs.  The 
hunger  and  cold  is  about  the  worst  thing. 
You'll  drift  into  the  stuff  easy  enough,"  con- 
soled the  Yank. 

"Some  time,  when  you  get  a  chance,  will 

16 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

you  tell  me  about  some  of  your  experiences 
in  the  war?" 

"Oui — when  I  get  time,  some  day,"  prom- 
ised Jimmy.  "Well,  are  you  set  for  an- 
other little  hike!  Guess  it's  about  three 
bells.  We  can  make  'bout  seven  kilometers 
before  dark  and  we'll  look  for  a  chambre — 
that's  a  room  in  French;  then  we'll  monjay 
and  cushay.  It'll  never  do  to  hit  a  town  after 
dark.  You're  out  of  luck  in  this  country  to 
find  a  room  or  anything  once  the  sun  goes 
down.  They  never  make  a  light  on  account 
of  Boche  planes.  Might  as  well  be  in  a  bar- 
ren desert  as  get  into  a  French  town  after 
nightfall." 

''I'm  ready,"  answered  0.  D.,  buckling  up 
his  harness  and  rising. 

"It  takes  me  quite  a  bit  of  time  to  get  all 
of  this  junk  on  me,"  apologized  McGee,  as 
he  began  throwing  musettes  over  his  shoul- 
ders and  buckling  on  belts  and  other  stuff. 
0.  D.  gave  him  a  hand  and  pretty  soon  Jim- 
my McGee  was  once  more  arrayed  in  all  the 
glory  of  a  front-line  veteran. 

"Guess  we'll  hang  onto  this  hunk  of  du 
pan.  It's  mighty  hard  to  get  bread  in  these 
French  places,"  said  McGee,  falling  into  the 
old  stride  that  he  patronized  when  on  the 
stem  in  France.  17 


II 

"AVEY  vous  DE   CHAMBRE?" 

JIMMY  McGEE  and  0.  D.,  alias  William 
G.  Preston,  made  a  great  contrast  as  they 
plodded  up  and  down  hill  along  the  tree-lined 
route  over  which  passed  in  1914  the  stream 
of  Paris  taxicabs  that  brought  French  poilus 
to  the  heights  of  Verdun  in  time  for  Papa 
Joffre  to  stop  the  mad  advance  of  the  Prus- 
sians. 

To  the  uninitiated,  0.  D.,  with  his  regula- 
tion pack  and  uniform  equipment,  would  most 
likely  have  been  immediately  picked  for  the 
better  soldier  of  the  two.  Jimmy  McGee, 
habitue  of  the  ragged  battle-lines,  and  show- 
ing the  wear  and  tear  of  fighting  in  every- 
thing about  him,  save  his  eyes,  would  have 
been  dubbed  a  slouch.  Which  just  goes  to 
prove  how  different  are  the  standards  of 
measurements  and  worth  that  obtain  at  the 
front  and  in  the  S.  0.  S.  Everything  and 
everybody  at  the  front  is  discounted  until 
nothing  but  naked  realities  show.  There  is 
is 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

no  chance  for  the  superficial  to  flourish  in 
the  trenches  and  gun  positions. 

The  pair  had  made  about  three  kilometers 
when  the  sound  of  an  approaching  auto 
warned  Jimmy  McGee  to  take  to  the  bushes. 
He  lost  no  time  in  getting  off  the  road.  0.  D. 
followed  him  with  the  statement  that  h6  be- 
lieved it  was  a  general's  limousine  coming. 

"Let  it  come — we  don't  need  to  see  it. 
Just  sit  down  and  look  the  other  way.  No 
use  tryin'  to  break  our  arms  with  that 
salutin'  stuff,"  was  the  reply. 

Both  men  sat  down  facing  the  woods. 
There  was  a  sound  of  tires  scraping  the  road, 
under  pressure  of  quickly  applied  brakes.  A 
door  opened  and  slammed  shut. 

"What  outfit  are  you  men  from?"  The 
question  was  asked  in  a  heavy,  steady  voice. 

McGee  and  0.  D.  stood  up  and  faced  about 
to  find  themselves  confronted  by  a  major- 
general.  They  saluted.  McGee  spoke  up. 

"Twenty-sixth  Division,  sir." 

"What  are  you  doing  straggling  along  this 
road?"  asked  the  general. 

"Just  returnin'  to  our  outfits  from  the 
hospital,  sir,"  lied  McGee,  with  a  feeling  6f 
glory. 

"All  right,  men." 

19 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

The  man  with  two  stars  on  his  shoulders 
stepped  back  into  the  warmth  and  luxury  of 
his  chugging  motor  and  was  off  in  a  swirl 
of  dust  that  nearly  choked  the  two  soldiers. 
McGee  caught  himself  in  the  act  of  reaching 
for  his  old,  battle-scarred  gas-mask. 

"Gee!  he  was  a  major-general,"  declared 
0.  D.  in  an  awed  voice ;  l '  did  you  see  the  two 
stars  on  his  straps?"  gasped  the  newcomer 
to  Jimmy's  hunting-grounds. 

"Oui,  I  noticed  them  all  right,  but  they 
didn't  mean  nothin'  to  me.  Generals  don't 
count  much  up  there,"  pointing  in  the  gen- 
eral direction  of  the  front.  "We  see  plenty 
of  other  things  that's  more  interestin'. 
Course,  you  know,  I  generally  salute  officers 
from  brigadier-gtenerals  up — that  is,  when 
they  see  me  first;  but  you  get  used  to  havin' 
'em  around  you,"  was  Jimmy's  rejoinder. 

"First  time  I  ever  had  a  general  speak  to 
me,"  admitted  0.  D. 

"Hell  afire!  I've  had  a  dozen  of  'em  talk 
to  me.  Old  General  Edwards — he's  our  boss, 
you  know,  and  some  boy  at  that,  too — gave 
me  an  awful  bawlin'-out  one  day  on  a  hike 
when  he  caught  me  ridin'  on  the  rollin' 
kitchen.  Then  another  time  he  came  into  my 
dug-out  one  day  and  told  me  that  the  C.  0. 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

had  said  something  good  about  a  fool  stunt 
I  pulled  one  night  when  our  lines  went  down 
and  we  kept  up  communication  durin'  the 
bombardment  and  attack.  Said  he'd  cite  me, 
or  some  thin'  like  that,  but  I  never  bothered 
to  find  out  much  about  the  business.  Believe 
me,  Edwards  is  the  kind  of  man  this  army 
needs  with  a  general's  stars  on.  He  gets 
right  in  the  old  guerre.  Some  of  'em  fight 
the  war  back  in  towns  that  the  Bodies  have 
agreed  not  to  shell.  Say,  by  the  way,  ever 
see  Pershing  down  in  the  S.  0.  S.?"  asked 
Jimmy,  as  he  got  started  under  way  again. 

"Yes,  once,  when  some  French  general 
gave  him  a  medal  or  something.  It  was  quite 
a  ceremony,"  replied  his  new  companion. 

"What  did  he  look  like?  Kinda  curious, 
as  I  ain't  seen  him  yet." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  are  right  at  the 
front  and  never  see  the  general?"  The  ques- 
tion was  crowded  with  incredulity. 

"Been  on  every  front  the  Americans  ever 
fought  on,  except  the  British  lines,  and  never 
seen  Pershing  yet,"  maintained  McGee. 

"Whee-ew!  I  thought  that  he  was  at  the 
front  all  of  the  time  leading  the  troops,"  said 
O.  D. 

"No  that  Civil  War  stuff  ain't  much  in 
21 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

this  guerre.  Generals  are  like  the  flags  and 
bands  at  the  time  we  go  over — they  ain't 
there,  as  a  rule,"  informed  the  man  who  knew 
about  those  things. 

"Three  kilometers  to  Issoncourt,  accord- 
ing to  that  mile-stone,"  said  0.  D.  after  they 
had  hiked  about  four  more  kilos. 

"' Don't  beilieVe  those  things.  Next  one 
will  say  seven  kilometers  to  Issoncourt. 
That's  the  way  they  build  those  things  in 
this  country.  You  'ain't  arrived  over  here 
until  you  get  there." 

"Looks  like  a  nice  town  over  yonder."  O. 
D.  illustrated  his  words  by  pointing  to  the 
cluster  of  red  roofs  that  glared  in  the  after- 
noon sunlight. 

"Looks— but  that's  all.  They're  all  alike. 
At  a  distance  you  think  these  darn  French 
villages  are  the  cat's  knee-knuckles,  so  to 
speak,  but  when  you  get  in  them  it's  the 
same  old  stuff — a  bunch  of  old,  moss-covered 
buildings  standin'  around  a  church  that's  big 
enough  for  an  Irish  parish  in  a  big  New 
York  City  precinct.  A  gang  of  cows  in  the 
street;  an  army  of  sheep  and  goats  runnin' 
in  and  out  of  front  doors;  a  few  hungry- 
looking  dogs;  beaucoup  manure  smoking  in 
front  of  every  door;  some  old  men  and 

22 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

women  clatterin'  up  and  down  in  those 
wooden  shoes — and  you've  got  the  best 
French  village  I  ever  stayed  in.  I'd  rather 
pass  the  rest  of  my  life  in  Yulee,  Florida, 
than  spend  three  months  in  one  of  these 
places  durin'  peace-times.  There's  a  few 
trains  pass  through  Yulee,  and  you  get  a 
newspaper  once  in  a  while;  but  in  these 
French  dumps  the  biggest  excitement  is  that 
old  village  crier  with  his  drum  and  line  of 
talk  that  the  inhabitants  can't  compree,  or 
a  two-year-old  newspaper  posted  up  on  the 
city  hall,  or  Mairie,  as  they  call  it.  I'm  off 
'em  for  life." 

It  was  only  four  o'clock  when  the  pair 
reached  Issoncourt,  but  already  the  shades 
of  oncoming  night  had  started  to  curtain  the 
early  autumn  day  with  a  sort  of  purple  haze 
that  soon  became  a  regular  night  mist. 

"Guess  we'll  camp  here  for  the  night," 
was  Jimmy's  decision,  as  he  noted  the  signs 
of  night  coming. 

Issoncourt  had  been  attached  to  the  sides 
of  the  main  Verdun  road,  and  everything 
that  the  town  owned  was  in  plain  view  from 
the  middle  of  the  street,  or  Grande  Hue,  as 
the  villagers  called  the  roadway. 

"  Looks  like  there  might  be  a  chainbre  in 
23 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

that  house.  We'll  reconnoiter  a  bit  for  a 
place  to  cmhay,"  and  Jimmy  started  toward 
what  he  thought  was  the  best-looking  house 
on  the  street. 

Just  as  they  reached  the  rough  stone  steps, 
after  wading  through  the  usual  three  feet  of 
mud,  a  young  colt  came  tearing  through  a 
barn  door  and  nearly  sent  0.  D.  down  for 
the  count.  Jimmy  tapped  at  the  door. 

"Entrez,"  called  a  woman's  voice. 

McGee  pushed  the  door  in  and  both  men 
stepped  into  the  room.  It  was  the  same  old 
stuff  to  Jimmy.  The  room  was  big  and  con- 
tained two  beds  that  were  built  into  the  walls 
and  canopied  over  with  some  kind  of  red 
curtain.  A  rickety  table  with  a  half-emptied 
bottle  of  vin  rouge  on  it  stood  in  the  center 
of  the  room.  There  was  the  usual  number 
of  chickens  passing  in  and  out  to  the  barn. 
Several  cats  lounged  about  the  great  open 
fireplace  that  was  bare  of  fire,  except  for  a 
few  pieces  of  smoking  things  that  looked 
like  grape-vines.  A  dog  got  up  somewhere 
in  the  darkness  and  shook  himself  back  to 
life.  The  woman  who  had  told  them  to  enter 
was  not  in  sight. 

Suddenly  the  sound  of  wooden  shoes  rat- 
tling over  stones  announced  the  approach  of 

24 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

some  one.  A  woman  came  in  from  the  barn 
carrying  an  apron  full  of  potatoes  and 
greens.  A  small  army  of  chickens  followed 
at  a  respectful  distance.  The  woman  was  of 
medium  height,  kind  of  pudgy  around  the 
gills  and  places  where  a  corset  should  have 
been.  Her  hands  were  red  and  big  enough 
to  handle  any  one-hundred-and-sixty-pound 
man.  Of  course,  she  wasn't  good-looking  or 
particularly  ugly,  just  an  ordinary  peasant 
face. 

"Que  desirez-vous,  Messieurs?"  (What 
will  you  have,  messieurs?) 

"Eh — bonjour,  madame/'  began  Jimmy, 
unsteadily.  " Avey  vouse  de  chambre  for 
comrade  and  moi?" 

The  woman  cocked  her  ear  to  get  the  drift. 
"Chambre — pour  coucher?"  she  asked. 

"Ah,  oui,  madame/'  assured  Jimmy,  pick- 
ing up  courage. 

The  woman  dropped  her  load  of  potatoes 
and  greens  on  the  floor,  kicked  off  the  wooden 
boats,  and,  telling  them  to  follow  her,  wad- 
dled into  the  next  and  only  room  in  the  house. 

"Voild!"  (There),  she  exclaimed,  pointing 
to  a  bed  that  was  at  least  seven  feet  high. 

"Bon — tres-beans,  madame, >f  to  the  woman. 
Then  Jimmy  turned  to  0.  D. :  "We  may  need 

25 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

a  step-ladder  to  get  in  and  a  pulley  to  get  us 
out;  but  say  la  guerre.  It's  a  hundred  times 
better  than  a  hay-loft." 

"Sure,"  said  0.  D.,  enthusiastically. 

"Madame,  monjay  id?"  was  Jimmy's  next 
effort. 

"Mais,  messieurs,  je  n'ai  rien!  T res-dif- 
ficile d'obtenir  quoi  que  ce  soit  dcpuis  la 
guerre!  Figuerez-vous,  une  livre  de  sucre 
pour  une  personne  par  mois!  Et  du  pain! 
0  la  la!  C'est  terrible,  vous  comprenz?  (Oh, 
messieurs,  I  have  very  little.  Too  difficult  to 
get  things  since  the  war  started.  One  pound 
of  sugar  a  person  for  a  month,  a  ration  of 
bread.  It's  terrible,  you  understand!),  an- 
swered the  woman,  evasively. 

"Oui,  madame,  compree;  but  comrade,  moi, 
no  monjay.  Beaucoup  hungry.  Beaucoup 
fatigue.  Compree?'9  questioned  McGee,  tap- 
ping his  stomach  as  if  it  were  an  empty  bag. 

"Oui,"  answered  the  madame,  solemnly. 

"Omelette,  pom  du  tear  fritz,  trey-bon  vous, 
serve  comrade,  moi,  s'il  vous  plate."  Jimmy 
did  his  darnest  to  tell  her  what  he  was  think- 
ing. 

She  understood  him  after  the  fashion  of 
the  French  people  who  had  been  near  Ameri- 
can soldiers  before.  Most  of  the  peasants  in 

26 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

the  regions  where  many  American  soldiers 
were  located  soon  learned  to  speak  their  na- 
tive French  just  as  brokenly  as  the  Ameri- 
cans. It  was  necessary  to  do  so  in  order  that 
the  likes  of  Jimmy  McGee  might  compree  just 
a  little  bit. 

After  much  puffing  and  running  around, 
the  woman  finally  set  a  table  for  her  hungry 
guests..  A  fifteen-egg  omelet,  beaucoup 
French-fried  potatoes,  what  was  left  of  Jim- 
my's bread,  a  dish  of  white  cheese,  and  a  tall 
bottle  of  wine  awaited  the  offensive  of  the 
two  Americans. 

"Ah,  madame,"  said  McGee,  licking  his 
chops,  "I'll  say  that's  the  darb— 

"Qu'est-ce  qu'il  ditf"  (What  did  you  say?) 

"Oh,  I  said  its  mighty  bon — beaucoup  mon- 
jay,  you  compree  moi?" 

The  peasant  woman  smiled  at  him  as  if 
she  understood,  and  Jimmy  made  a  dive  into 
the  middle  of  the  big  yellow  omelet. 

"Gee,  this  is  the  best  feed  I've  sat  down 
to  in  a  long,  long  time,"  admitted  0.  D.  as  he 
piled  the  brown  potatoes  knee-deep  in  his 
plate.  "Wish  I  could  speak  French  like  you 
do,  I'd  be  able  to  keep  from  starving." 

"Oh,  I  don't  parley  much,  just  enough  to 
get  along.  Course,  I  never  have  any  time 
27. 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

to  study.  If  we  get  a  chance  I'll  teach  you 
some  of  the  stuff." 

"  Thanks.  Say,  wonder  if  you  could  get  her 
to  give  me  a  drink  of  water.  I'll  pass  away 
with  this  thirst." 

"Here,  take  a  glass  of  the  vim  rouge.  It 
may  be  better  than  the  stuff  I  had  in  my 
canteen,"  offered  Jimmy. 

"No,  believe  I'd  rather  have  the  water, 
if  you  can  get  it  without  too  much  trouble.'^ 

"None  fall.  Wait  'till  the  madame  blows 
in  again;  I'll  see  what  we  can  do." 

"Madame,  avey  vous  der  low?"  asked  Jim- 
my, hoping  that  she  would  get  his  meaning. 

"Der  low,"  repeated  the  woman,  lost  for 
a  moment.  "Der  low,"  again.  This  time  with 
great  wondering,  "Pas  compris,  monsieur." 

"Cum  see,  cum  saw,"  explained  McGee, 
raising  an  empty  glass  to  his  lips. 

"Oh,  pardon,  monsieur,  pardon,  oui,  tout 
de  suite."  She  hurried  over  to  the  wall  and 
pulled  a  part  of  it  out,  found  a  cupboard 
where  nobody  else  would  have  ever  dreamed 
there  was  one,  and  drew  forth  a  glass.  She 
brought  the  glass  to  Jimmy  and  gave  it  to 
him. 

"She  didn't  get  me,"  groaned  Jimmy. 
"Thought  I  wanted  another  glass,  just  like  a 
2* 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

Frog."  Then  to  the  woman,  "Madame,  com- 
pree  low,  der  low,  drink,  you  savvy?"  he 
floundered  deeper. 

The  woman  shook  her  head  while  McGee 
scanned  the  room  in  search  of  a  pump  or 
something  by  which  he  might  readily  explain 
his  desire.  There  was  nothing  in  sight  to 
help  him.  He  turned  again  to  the  waiting 
woman. 

"Madame,  moi  comrade — no  van  rouge — no 
pas  bon  for  comrade.  Kisskesay,  der  low, 
water,  in  Fransay?"  Jimmy  was  at  the 
limit  of  his  resources. 

"Never  mind,  old  man,  I'll  go  without  it," 
said  0.  D.,  coming  to  the  rescue. 

"Der  low,  der  low,"  muttered  the  woman 
shaking  her  head  uncomprehendingly  and 
pronouncing  the  word  just  as  Jimmy  had 
done.  Suddenly  a  light  flashed  across  her 
stolid  features. 

"De  I'eau,  vous  dites."    (Water  you  said.) 

"Oui,  Oui,  madame." 

"Ah,  mon  Dieu,  de  I'eau,  je  comprends," 
and  she  dashed  out  of  doors  with  a  small 
bucket. 

"At  last  she  gets  it — some  battlin',  though. 
These  doggone  French  people  can't  compree 
this  water  stuff.  Maybe  if  they'd  drink  more 

2» 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

water  the  war'd  be  won  faster.  But  I'm  get- 
ting just  like  'em — haven't  had  any  water  in 
four  days  myself  now.  Guess  I'll  tank  up 
to-night." 

Madame  returned  with  the  water  and  im- 
mediately poured  it  all  in  a  basin,  grabbed 
some  soap  and  a  towel  and  brought  the  whole 
outfit  over  to  Jimmy. 

"Voild!"  she  exclaimed  as  if  the  guerre  was 
won. 

Jimmy  looked  at  the  basin,  the  soap  and 
towel.  Then  he  looked  long  and  hard  at  0.  D. 
The  woman  stood  fast,  regarding  them  both, 
feeling  suddenly  guilty  of  having  sinned 
again. 

"Corporal  of  the  guard,  relief,  post  number 
one,"  shouted  Jimmy.  "Can  you  beat  that, 
wouldn't  it  drive  a  man  nuts?  I  ask  for  a 
drink  of  water  and  the  woman  insists  that  I 
wash.  No  use,  0.  D."  Then  to  the  woman, 
"Madame,  pas  wash,  cum  'saw,9'  and  he  lifted 
the  glass  to  his  lips  for  the  second  time. 

"Quoi?  Bolre  de  I'eau?  Impossible! ! 
Buves  done  du  vin!  quelle  race!  Eh!  mon 
Dieu!  Us  bovient  de  I'eau!"  ("What!  you 
want  water  to  drink.  Impossible.  Drink  the 
red  wine.  ^What  people — what  people!  My 

30 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

God!  they  drink  water),  exclaimed  the  mysti- 
fied woman,  and  she  nearly  went  into  fits. 

"Oui,  madame,"  insisted  Jimmy,  raising 
the  glass  up  and  down  as  if  to  convince  her 
by  that  action  of  the  sincerity  of  his  words 
and  meaning. 

"Comme  vous  voulent,  messieurs!"  (As 
you  will  then,  messieurs),  answered  madame. 
and  she  went  out  for  more  water. 

Just  as  the  boys  were  hitting  the  cheese 
or  fro  mage  course  as  Jimmy  insisted  on  call- 
ing it,  the  man  of  the  house,  or  patron,  as 
madame  called  him,  blew  in.  He  was  nothing 
more  and  nothing  less  than  a  grizzled  old 
poilu  rigged  up  in  civilian  clothes. 

"Bon  swoir,  messieurs,"  was  his  hearty 
greeting. 

"Bon jour,  monsieur"  responded  Jimmy, 
rising  to  shake  his  hand. 

"Bonne  mangee?"  asked  the  Frenchman, 
pointing  to  the  table. 

"Oui  .  .  .  trey-bien,"  declared  McGee,  and 
he  let  out  two  notches  in  his  belt  to  prove 
that  he  was  well  fed. 

The  old  man  dragged  up  a  chair  and  made 
believe  he  was  going  to  roll  a  cigarette. 
Jimmy  saw  the  act  and  got  wise. 

"Here,  have  a  regular  cigarette,"  he  said, 

3  31 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

extending  a  pack  of  Piedmonts  to  the  patron. 

"Merci.     Merci,  monsieur." 

"Take  'em  all.  I  can  get  more.  Suppose 
we  ain't  too  near  the  front  yet  for  the 
Y.  M.  C.  A." 

"Ah,  monsieur,  vous  etes  tres-gentil,  tres 
I) on."  (Ah,  sir,  you  are  very  nice,  very  kind.) 

"Not  at  all." 

Once  the  cigarette  was  lighted,  the  man  of 
the  house  waddled  over  to  the  cupboard  and 
extracted  a  long  dark  bottle.  He  came  back 
to  the  table,  measured  out  four  glasses  of 
brownish-looking  stuff  and  handed  them 
around.  He  touched  his  own  against  every 
one  else's  and  shouted: 

"Vive  VAmerique!" 

"Vive  la  France!"  shouted  Jimmy. 

The  old  cognac  went  down  at  a  swallow. 
Everyone  smacked  their  lips  except  0.  D.  He 
busied  himself  brushing  away  two  big  tears 
that  filled  his  eyes. 

"Bon,"  grunted  the  Frenchman. 

"Ah,  oui,"  answered  Jimmy,  patting  his 
stomach. 

"Mangee,"  said  the  husband.  He  sat  down 
with  his  wife  to  a  meal  of  soup,  with  bread 
floating  around  in  it,  a  dish  of  boiled  pota- 
toes, bread,  cheese,  and  wine. 

32 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

''Want  to  show  you  something,  Jimmy,'* 
said  0.  D.,  rising  and  getting  an  envelope  out 
of  his  blouse.  He  spread  a  lot  of  pictures  in 
front  of  Jimmy. 

"That's  mother,  in  her  little  rose-garden. 
This  is  Mary,  always  loved  flowers,  too.  See 
she's  hiding  behind  some  tall  lilies,  just  so 
you  can  see  her  face." 

"Gee,  I  can't  tell  the  difference  between 
Mary  and  the  lilies,"  interrupted  Jimmy,  ad- 
miringly, as  he  looked  upon  the  picture  of 
Mary's  sweet,  girlish  face.  "Golly!  it  must 
be  pippin  stuff  to  have  a  sister  like  that." 

"Here's  some  more  of  Mary,  taken  on  the 
front  stoop  and  one  at  the  shore  when  I  took 
her  down  there  to  go  swimming  one  hot  day." 

Jimmy  was  so  absorbed  looking  at  Mary's 
pictures  that  he  didn't  hear  the  madame's 
inquisitive  question. 

"Fiancee,  fiancee?"  she  asked,  pointing 
to  Mary's  photo. 

"No,"  answered  Jimmy  at  last,  "sister, 
compree?  Sceur  to  comrade"  pointing  to 
O.  D.,  who  nodded  his  head  in  affirmation. 

The  snap  of  Mary  taken  on  the  beach  fasci- 
nated Jimmy.  He  decided  it  should  belong 
to  him.  When  0.  D.  was  not  watching,  the 
Yank  who  never  let  Boche  shells  or  gas  worry 

33 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

him  swept  the  picture  under  his  blouse  with 
a  strange  feeling  of  unrest  running  through 
his  body  and  soul. 


m 


IMMY,  tell  me  how  you  happened  to  get 
in  the  army?"  asked  O.  D. 

"Well,  time  the  guerre  started  I  meant  to 
enlist.  But  it  was  kinda  funny  after  all  just 
how  I  came  to  join  this  Yankee  outfit,"  ad- 
mitted McGee. 

"How's  that?" 

"Back  in  the  old  States  I  used  to  be  a  little 
two-by-four  newspaper  man  'round  New  York 
— scribbled  a  few  lines  about  murders,  scan- 
dals, subway  accidents,  and  wrote  up  a  lot 
of  stuff  'bout  people  who  pulled  wild  stunts 
to  get  their  names  in  print.  Ever  since  I 
left  my  home  down  in  Florida  five  years  ago, 
after  my  folks  all  died  and  I  was  alone  in 
this  so-called  cruel  world,  I  had  a  hankering 
for  adventure.  Used  to  travel  'round  quite 
a  bit,  and  finally  landed  in  New  York  as  a 
cub  reporter.  Stayed  there  awhile  and  got  so 
I  could  make  my  own  livin'  as  a  newspaper 
man.  Then  the  war  started. 

35 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

"Naturally  I  wanted  to  go  to  France  toot 
sweet.  Always  was  kinda  romantic — so  much 
so  till  I  thought  seriously  of  goin'  into  the 
movies  once  or  twice — that  along  with  the 
adventure-bug  and  natural-born  desire  to  take 
a  good  crack  at  them  dirty  Heinies  sent  me 
up  to  a  recruitin '-station  to  get  some  dope 
about  joinin'  the  army. 

"About  that  time  I  got  a  telegram  to  beat 
it  for  Providence.  A  friend  of  mine  who  was 
a  captain  in  the  Coast  Artillery  said  that  he 
had  a  good  job  in  the  army  for  me.  I  shot 
over  to  Providence  and  went  down  to  the 
fort  where  the.  captain's  outfit  was  located. 
The  job  hadn't  come  through  when  I  arrived, 
so  while  waitin'  I  became  correspondent  for 
The  Providence  Journal. 

"Three  months  passed  and  the  job — I  was 
to  be  sergeant-major  of  the  post,  with  prom- 
ise of  an  early  commission — hadn't  ma- 
terialized. I  got  mighty  itchy  to  be  a  soldier. 
Folks  used  to  look  at  me  and  wonder  why  I 
wasn't  wearin'  khaki  instead  of  white  flan- 
nels and  silk  shirts,  so  I  thought,  anyhow. 

"Finally  the  job  came  through — I  was  to 
enlist  on  August  eleventh.  The  night  before 
I  started  down  to  Providence  to  see  some 
friends  and  say  au  revoir.  On  the  way  I  ran 

36 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

into  a  column  of  field  artillery  headed  for  a 
railroad  station. 

11  Where  you  fellows  goin'?  I  asked. 

"To  France,"   answered  a  little  corporal. 

"To  France,  says  I  to  myself  a  couple  of 
times,  and  I'm  going  to  take  a  plush-lined  job 
down  at  a  Coast  Artillery  fort.  Never  do  it. 
Sure  enough  two  hours  later,  me,  my  white 
flannels,  silk  shirt,  and  dinky  Panama  was  on 
board  a  flat  ridin'  toward  Boxford,  Massa- 
chusetts. 

"That  night  I  cushayed  on  the  ground  with 
a  horse-blanket  for  coverin'.  Great  God! 
Thought  I'd  freeze  to  death  before  the  bugle 
blew  to  quit  cushayin'.  Next  morning'  I  was 
sworn  in.  For  three  days  I  drilled,  dressed 
up  in  my  white  pants  and  seashore  outfit. 
They  didn't  have  a  uniform  big  enough  for 
me.  Gee,  it  was  funny  for  everybody  but 
me.  Finally  I  got  a  pair  of  breeches  that 
wouldn't  split  every  time  I  tried  to  get  in  'em. 

"We  got  beaucoup  of  that  squad's  east  arid 
double-time  stuff  there.  Then  came  an  order 
for  my  battalion  to  partee  for  Newport  News, 
Virginia. 

"Down  there  they  put  us  doin*  guard  duty 
over  a  few  miles  of  wild  horses  and  hungry 
mules.  Stayed  there  a  month  and  a  half. 

37 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

Then  we  got  orders.  That's  how  I  got  in  this 
man's  army,"  concluded  Jimmy. 

"Gee,  you're  the  most  interesting  fellow 
I  ever  met.  Don't  quit  now.  How  did  you 
come  across?" 

"One  Saturday  afternoon  me,  George 
Neil,  and  Sundberg  was  sittin'  in  a  theater 
watchin'  some  guys  fall  in  and  out  of  stale 
slapstick  stuff  when  a  gink,  the  manager,  I 
guess,  blew  out  on  the  stage  between  acts  and 
said  that  all  men  in  the  One  Hundred  and 
Third  Field  Artillery  must  report  toot  sweet 
in  front  of  the  house." 

"Monsieur,  voulez-vous  coucher  mainte- 
nant?"  (Will  you  sleep  now?)  interrupted  the 
madame. 

"Oui"  replied  Jimmy,  making  a  move  to 
get  up. 

"Peu  importe!  Restez  done  pres  du  feu!" 
(It  does  not  make  any  difference.  Stay  by 
the  fire  if  you  are  not  ready  to  go.) 

"Merci,  madame,"  and  Jimmy  sat  down 
again. 

The  old  man  was  jerked  out  of  his  snoring 
slumber.  With  little  less  ado  than  to  shake 
off  his  slippers  and  take  off  his  coat  the  old 
fellow  climbed  into  bed,  pants,  cap,  and  every- 
thing else  on.  His  spouse  went  ahead  with 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

her  preparations  for  sleep  as  if  the  two 
Americans  had  been  miles  away. 

"Just  like  these  people.  They  don't  give 
a  darn  for  any  one,"  explained  Jimmy  as  he 
started  to  scratch  around  his  neck  and  chest. 
"Damn  these  cooties,  they  always  get  rest- 
less when  I  stay  near  a  hot  fire  long."  He 
pushed  farther  away  from  the  fireplace  and 
put  a  cigarette  to  his  lips. 

"Go  on,  Jimmy,  with  your  story.  You  were 
told  to  leave  the  house — and  what  then?" 
begged  0.  D. 

"Well,  I  reported  in  front  of  the  theater 
and  a  sergeant  grabs  me  and  says,  'Git  in 
that  truck  and  go  to  camp.'  'What  the  hell's 
up?'  I  asked.  Never  mind,  you'll  find  out 
soon  enough,'  snaps  out  the  sergeant. 

"When  we  hit  the  camp  half  of  the  bat- 
tery was  lined  up  gettin'  inspected  and  the 
other  half  was  fallin'  all  over  each  other, 
rollin'  up  blankets  or  cussin'  the  supply  ser- 
geant because  he  wouldn't  issue  stuff  that 
had  been  swiped  or  lost.  Tacks  McLoughlin, 
who  used  to  cushay  next  to  me  in  the  tent, 
told  me  that  my  detail  was  goin'  to  France 
toot  sweet. 

"You  can  imagine  that  the  news  kind  of 
excited  me  just  a  litte,  'cause  I  was  green 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

to  real  excitement  in  those  days.  I  started 
to  make  up  my  own  roll,  but  when  it  came 
time  to  strap  it  up  I  found  that  I  was  tyin' 
up  my  own  arm  inside  the  roll,  so  had  to  un- 
wind the  whole  darn  thing.  Finally  I  got  all 
set  and  was  inspected.  Nobody  tried  to  stop 
me  from  goin',  so  I  guess  I  was  thought  able 
and  fit.  Toot  sweet  after  we  monjayed  a  rot- 
ten supper  of  goolash — some  meal  to  hand  a 
gang  about  to  come  to  this  God-forsaken 
country — the  gang  started  bettin'  like  a  bunch 
of  wild  men  at  a  horse-race. 

"  'Bet  we'll  get  torpedoed,'  shouted  one 
crape-hanger.  'Ten  to  one  we'll  be  at  the 
front  in  two  months,'  said  Sundberg,  goin' 
wild.  I  told  him  to  lay  dead  on  that  stuff.  I 
knew  there  wasn't  much  chance  of  'em  sendin* 
a  gang  of  men  who  didn'l  know  a  halter- 
shank  from  the  breech-block  of  a  piece  to 
the  front  right  away.  One  gink  wanted  to  bet 
me  that  he'd  get  hit  before  me.  I  listened  to 
the  bull  just  to  keep  my  excitement  down. 

"The  trucks  rolled  up  about  eight  bells  and 
we  all  piled  in  on  top  of  one  another  and 
started  for  the  ship.  It  didn't  take  long  to 
get  down  to  the  pier  and  we  were  loaded  on 
like  a  bunch  of  cattle. 

"We  just  followed  the  man  in  front  of  us 

40 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

up  and  down,  in  and  around  all  of  the  decks 
on  that  cussed  boat  until,  at  last,  somebody 
found  the  way  down  to  what  they  had  rigged 
up  as  our  quarters.  Time  I  stuck  my  nose 
down  that  companionway  I  knew  that  some- 
thin  '  was  wrong — smelled  just  like  the  horse 
and  mule  corrals  that  we  had  been  guardin'. 
Finally  I  landed  on  the  last  deck,  which  was 
at  least  fifty  feet  below  daylight,  and  reached 
my  bunk,  which  was  jammed  up  close  to  the 
rear  of  another  mule — I  mean  a  mule's  stall. 
I  swore  like  a  sailor  and  some  funny  guy 
who  knew  a  little  bit  of  French  bawled  out, 
'Say  la  guerre,'  which  I  understand  pretty 
well  now,  even  if  I  didn't  know  what  he  was 
talkin'  about  then. 

"Well,  0.  D.,  you  know  a  mule  don't  smell 
like  a  flower-garden  and  when  you  put  sixty 
mules  and  fifty  men  in  a  rat-hole,  'way  below 
fresh  air  and  daylight,  there  ain't  goin'  to  be 
any  perfumery-shop  made  by  doin'  so.  Boy, 
that  was  one  hell  of  a  night.  Gas  ain't  in  it 
with  the  fumes  that  filled  that  bunking-place. 
When  I  woke  up  in  the  mornin'  my  old  bean 
was  so  heavy  I  thought  I  was  wearin'  a  cast- 
iron  derby.  I  believe  I'd  have  suffocated  if 
it  wasn't  for  a  trick  that  some  wise  bird 
played  on  Johnson,  who  cushayed  in  the  bunk 

41 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

above.  You  see,  our  tier  of  torture-racks 
was  right  below  one  of  those  air-funnels,  or 
whatever  you  call  them  things  on  ships  that 
look  like  big  question-marks.  'Bout  midnight 
the  funny  guy  lets  a  whole  bucket  of  cold 
water  go  down  that  funnel.  Course  Johnny 
got  most  of  it  in  the  stomach,  but  I  got 
enough  to  kinda  revive  me. 

"Soon  as  I  woke  up  I  thought  we  was  out 
to  sea.  I  felt  sick  enough  to  be  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  ocean,  but  some  guy  who  had  been 
up  on  deck  hollered  down  that  we  hadn't 
moved  a  foot  from  the  dock.  Sundberg,  who 
had  been  talkin'  about  the  motion  of  the  boat, 
had  to  crawl  under  a  bunk  after  that. 

"The  first  day  on  the  boat  was  enough  to 
make  me  believe  that  we  would  all  be  starved 
to  death  before  gettin'  to  France.  They  had 
a  Chinese  steward  named  Yung  Kow,  and 
that  slant-eyed  chink  hid  most  of  the  stuff  we 
were  supposed  to  eat. 

"His  parents  would  have  turned  in  thfcir 
grave  if  they  only  knew  how  well  his  name 
fitted  him.  Too  bad  pig  ain't  a  Chinese  word. 
Young  pig  would  have  been  better  than  Yung 
Kow.  The  third  night  out  we  caught  him  and 
three  more  almond-eyed  cooks  storm*  the 

42 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

stuff  down  in  a  hold.  Didn't  do  a  thing  but 
turn  the  deck  hose  on  the  crew  of  'em. 

"Before  we  started  loadin'  them  wild  jack- 
asses and  horses  on  I  had  a  chance  to  pike 
the  tub  off  that  was  to  take  us  across.  It 
was  an  old  Hawaiian  line  freighter  named  the 
Panaman.  Seemed  to  be  a  fair-looking  ship — 
but  none  too  big  for  nine  hundred  mules,  nine- 
ty-nine horses,  and  two  hundred  men. 

"I  was  talkin'  to  a  cannibal  named  Punk- 
jaw  who  had  been  a  sailor  ever  since  he  quit 
eatin'  people  four  years  before.  He  couldn't 
speak  much  English,  but  could  sputter  some 
words  in  Spanish,  and  as  I  took  a  corre- 
spondence course  in  that  lingo  I  got  about 
every  tenth  word.  Along  came  Bill  O'Rourke, 
actin'  top-kicker,  and  tells  me  to  haul  it 
down  on  the  dock  and  lead  a  few  mules 
aboard.  I  dragged  along  and  started  to  do 
as  he  said. 

"But  listen  here,  O.  D.,  you  know  a  mule 
is  one  of  them  persons  a  man  can't  lead  any 
too  easy.  The  first  long-eared  brat  that  I  got 
didn't  have  no  intention  of  goin'  to  France — 
not  if  he  could  help  it.  I  took  the  halter- 
shank  and  went  as  far  up  that  gangway  as  the 
slack  of  my  rope  let  me.  Then  I  stopped. 
A  mule,  'specially  these  army  ones,  is  strong- 
43 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

er  than  most  men.  That  fellow  I  had  was  a 
regular  Goliath.  He  just  stood  there  like  a 
statue.  Well,  I  pulled  and  cussed  about  ten 
minutes  and  got  a  nigger-boy  to  wallop  that 
brute  over  the  hind  with  a  thick  plank.  Noth- 
in'  doin'. 

"That  mule  was  a  slacker.  He  just  wasn't 
goin'  to  France  and  fight.  You  know  how 
aggravatin'  a  top-sergeant,  more  so  an  actin' 
one,  can  be.  'Git  on  that  rope  and  drag  your 
mule  up;  you're  holdin'  up  the  ship,'  bawls 
O'Rourke.  Can  you  imagine  that  stuff  from  a 
man  like  O'Kourke,  who  had  spent  quite  a  bit 
o'  time  with  mules  and  knew  their  tricks. 
'Git  on  the  rope  yourself,'  I  shot  back.  See, 
I'd  only  been  in  the  army  a  little  time  and  a 
top-sergeant  didn't  seem  like  no  tin  god  to 
me. 

"Course  O'Rourke  was  sore  as  a  boil.  But 
he  couldn't  do  nothin'.  We  got  a  detail  at 
the  head  and  stern  of  that  critter  and  when 
somebody  counted  three  everybody  yanked 
and  pushed.  The  damn  mule  stood  fast,  but 
Berny  Garrity  and  another  guy  went  over- 
board while  several  others  landed  on  dif- 
ferent bales  of  cotton  nearby.  We  got  some 
coons  to  help  us.  Them  niggers  shouted  like 
madmen  in  a  side-show.  But  nothin'  didin'. 
44 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

Finally  we  hooked  that  fool  mule  onto  a 
pulley  with  beaucoup  ropes  and  hauled  him 
aboard.  It  was  a  battle  to  get  that  gink  in 
his  stall. 

"The  ship  was  loaded  and  ready  to  start 
to  France  at  three  bells  that  afternoon. 
'Bout  four  we  pulled  up  the  anchor  and  got 
under  way.  When  we  got  so  far  out  into  the 
ocean  that  shore  was  just  like  a  low  cloud  in 
the  west  I  said,  'Good-by,  old  America.' 
Thought  I'd  never  see  the  United  States  for 
many  moons  again.  <3an  you  imagine  us 
wakin'  up  the  next  mornin'  in  plain  sight  of 
Jersey  coast?  We  did — and  went  into  New 
York  Harbor  for  a  convoy. 

"After  waitin*  thirty-six  hours  they  fin- 
ally got  all  of  the  tubs  in  a  line  that  was  to 
go  across  with  us.  I  never  saw  such  a  fleet 
of  fishin '-smacks  and  whalers  in  all  my  life. 
There  wasn't  one  that  could  make  over  seven 
miles  an  hour,  except  ourselves,  as  we  soon 
found  out. 

"The  Statue  of  Liberty  was  about  the  last 
friend  I  seen  as  we  pulled  out  of  New  York 
and  hit  for  the  briny.  That  night  we  were 
out  to  sea  for  fair  and  the  Panaman  did  some 
stunts  that  would  make  a  good  Holy  Boiler 
feel  ashamed. 

45 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

"Can't  say  that  our  trip  was  as  bad  as  it 
might  have  been.  Course  I  got  out  of  that 
hole  they  stuck  us  in  for  sleepin '-quarters 
and  made  a  bunk  upon  the  second  hatch,  'mid- 
ships. Sundberg  and  I  slept  together  there 
and  we  used  to  rope  ourselves  down  at  night 
to  keep  from  rollin'  overboard.  The  eatin' 
was  rotten  for  us,  but  the  mules  and  horses 
ate  pretty  fair,  that  is,  all  but  mine.  I  had 
eighteen  soft-brained,  long-eared  mules  to 
feed,  and  they  got  so  damn  mean  until  they 
would  bite  my  back  when  I  turned  'round  to 
pick  up  hay.  So  I  starved  'em  a  few  times 
just  to  show  'em  who  was  runnin'  their  little 
boardin '-house. 

"  There  wasn't  any  amusements  on  that 
boat.  Not  even  a  checker-board  or  a  game  of 
tiddledy-de-winks.  In  that  case  we  had  to 
shoot  crap  quite  a  bit.  Generally  the  whole 
outfit  includin'  the  crew,  galley  hounds,  and 
even  Punkjaw,  shot  all  mornin'  long  and  after 
dinner  we  encored  until  dark.  The  games  got 
so  high  and  interestin'  until  the  ship's  officers 
and  some  army  lieutenants  got  a  few  hands 
in.  That's  how  I  met  Lindsey,  the  third 
engineer.  He  and  I  got  chummy  over  a 
couple  of  good  hands  that  ran  for  me  almost 
half  an  hour  and  first  thing  I  knew  I  had 

46 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

fixed  to  sleep  in  his  stateroom  on  the  little 
sofa  thing  in  there. 

"  'Bout  that  time  I  made  friends  with 
Julius.  He  served  the  captain's  mess  and 
used  to  hand  me  in  a  feed  every  meal  through 
the  port-hole.  Talk  about  good  monjayin'. 
Boy,  them  was  the  days  when  a  dish  of  ham 
and  eggs  looked  like  a  mess-kit  full  of  'corn 
willy.'  Them  officers  used  to  get  chicken 
almost  every  meal.  Course  I  monjayed  just 
as  good  as  they  did  when  that  chink  steward 
didn't  have  his  beads  on  Julius. 

"The  only  ceremonies  that  took  place  on 
board  was  funerals.  We  had  quite  a  few 
mules  die,  and  of  course  there  wasn't  much 
use  in  carryin'  them  along  like  that.  A  dead 
mule  ain't  much  account  hitched  up  to  a  ra- 
tion cart  or  a  rollin'  kitchen.  So  we  hauled 
'em  up  and  let  'em  slide  overboard.  There 
was  a  couple  of  guys  who  hollered  about  doin' 
that,  as  they  said  German  submarines  might 
track  us  or  find  out  that  there  was  boats 
around  if  they  saw  dead  mules  floatin'  on  the 
ocean.  But  I  told  those  fellows  that  it  would 
be  a  darn  sight  easier  to  locate  us  if  we  kept 
the  mules  on  board  than  if  we  threw  'em  over. 

" After  fifteen  days  of  rollin'  and  pitchin' 
we  sneaked  into  the  danger  zone,  as  that  place 

4  47 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

was  called  where  there  was  supposed  to  be 
beaucoup  U-boats.  Funny  thing,  but  you 
never  heard  a  word  'bout  submarines  until 
we  hit  the  zone.  Then  the  only  thing  said 
was  that  we  might  have  to  swim  a  good  deal 
if  we  got  hit,  as  most  of  the  boats  were  not 
seaworthy.  Still  we  kept  on  drillin'  with  them 
just  as  if  they  were  good  enough  to  get  in  if 
the  ship  got  torpedoed. 

"Our  third  day  in  the  zone,  after  the  little 
toy-boats,  or  destroyers  as  they  called  them, 
bobbed  up,  gave  us  a  little  fun.  One  of  the 
guys  on  watch — that's  the  same  thing  as 
guard  in  this  man's  army — swore  he  saw  a 
submarine  on  the  starboard  railin'  or  some- 
thin*  like  that.  Everybody  rushed  to  that 
side  of  the  ship  until  we  like  to  have  tipped 
over.  You  might  think  that  we  would  have 
had  sense  enough,  knowin'  it  was  a  German 
submarine,  to  have  ducked  behind  something 
so  as  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  anythin'  that 
the  Dutchmen  would  shoot  over.  But  no,  just 
like  Americans,  they  had  to  run  out  and  see 
what  was  goinr  on. 

"The  captain  had  'em  blow  the  bugle  fb 
call  everybody,  'cept  the  gunners  and  crew, 
to  the  life-boats.  'Bout  the  time  that  the 
racket  started  Samson  and  me  was  just  gettin' 

48 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

away  with  a  big  pan  full  of  bread-puddin' 
that  the  chinks  and  Japs  had  made  for  their 
own  dinner.  I  heard  'em  yellin',  'Submarine, 
submarine!'  But  hell,  I  didn't  want  to  lose 
that  puddin',  not  after  gettin'  away  so  clean, 
so  Samson  and  I  ran  down  the  ladder  that 
goes  from  the  smokestack  room  down  to  the 
hold  and  hid  the  stuff.  When  I  got  upstairs — 
I  mean  on  deck  again — the  bow-gun  crew  had 
a  gun  trained  on  the  German  and  banged 
away  once  or  twice.  Some  of  the  fellows 
swear  that  they  saw  the  wake  of  a  torpedo 
'way  behind  us  as  if  the  Boche  had  fell  short 
by  a  good  many  yards.  But  guess  they  was 
seein'  things. 

1  'That  was  the  last  fun  we  had  until  we  hit 
the  harbor  of  Brest  after  bein'  at  sea  twenty- 
three  days.  A  Frenchman  pilot  got  on 
aboard.  Believe  me  it  was  a  hell  of  a  funny 
thing — he  couldn't  speak  a  word  of  English 
and  none  of  the  officers  could  say  a  line  of 
French.  In  them  days  I  was  just  as  bad  as 
the  officers  as  I  couldn't  even  say  good  morn- 
in'  or  ask  for  a  drink  of  water  in  the  Frog 
stuff.  They  got  a  buck  private  by  the  name 
of  St.  Gabriel  or  somethin'  like  that  who  was 
a  French  Canuck  to  parley  for  them.  That 
was  one  day  that  the  privates  had  the  officers 

49 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

at  parade  rest.  Gabriel  was  the  only  man 
that  knew  what  was  up  beside  the  pilot,  and 
they  had  each  other  bluffed  I  believe.  Well, 
buddy,  that's  how  I  got  to  this  sunny  France 
business.  Sunny!  We  ain't  had  two  whole 
clear  days  since  we  hit  the  country."  Jimmy 
McGee  started  running  his  hand  under  his 
shirt  and  scratched  away  in  a  professional 
manner. 


IV 


"SUNNY  FRANCE!" 

"\7*OU  sure  had  a  tough  time  getting  here, 
J[  Jimmy,  compared  to  me.  I  came  over 
on  an  old  ocean  liner.  We  had  good  clean 
bunks  and  three  settings  at  table.  There 
were  regular  bill  o'  fares  and  live  waiters. 
Only  took  eight  days  to  come  over.  What 
was  your  first  impression  of  France  and 
where  did  you  land  at  Brest?"  0.  D.'s  brown 
eyes  didn't  show  a  bit  of  sleepiness  and  his 
ears  were  cocked  for  every  word  that  Jimmy 
McGee  was  willing  to  spill. 

"Hell,  no — not  at  Brest,  that  must  have 
been  a  good  town  in  them  days.  There  was 
a  rule  made  at  the  beginning  of  the  war  not 
to  give  this  division  anything  good.  We 
stayed  in  Brest  that  night  and  started  for  St. 
Nazaire  toot  sweet  the  next  day.  God  help 
anybody,  even  the  M.  P.'s  who  had  to  fight 
the  guerre  in  St.  Nazaire.  That  town  is  the 
first  place  the  Lord  made  and  He  forgot  about 

51 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

it  ten  minutes  after  putting  it  up.  It's  worse 
than  the  town  old  Bill  Blodgett  comes  from. 

"Well,  we  got  in  the  harbor  there  'bout  two 
o'clock.  It  was  kinda  foggy  and  rainin'  off 
and  on.  'Ain't  quit  since  then.  Still  they 
call  it  'Sunny  France.'  After  a  lot  of  wait- 
in'  around  they  shoved  us  in  the  canal  locks, 
and  I'm  a  liar  if  we  didn't  go  right  through 
the  middle  of  the  town.  Some  of  the  houses  on 
both  sides  of  the  locks  looked  like  twins  or 
else  as  if  they  had  been  pushed  apart  so  as 
the  canal  could  run  through  the  town. 

"Guess  the  first  impression  I  got  was  that 
the  Americans  was  still  a  new  play  toy  for 
the  French,  'cause  there  was  a  gang  of  kids 
and  people  runnin'  up  and  down  the  docks 
shoutin'  and  wavin'  to  us.  Then  I  began  to 
notice  the  buildings — whew!  They  looked  old 
enough  to  be  great-grandfathers  to  some  of 
those  four-hundred-year-old  houses  down  in 
St.  Augustine,  Florida.  Most  of  'em  had 
Cafe  or  Van  Rouge  written  all  over  them.  I 
never  saw  so  many  cafes  in  all  my  life. 
Course  the  French  people  looked  funny  as  hell 
to  us.  Some  were  all  dolled  up  in  fine  clothes 
and  others  looked  as  if  they  would  catch  cold 
for  want  of  somethin'  to  cover  them.  There 
was  more  soldiers  walkin'  up  and  down  on  the 

52 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

piers  than  we  had  in  the  whole  American 
army  at  that  time.  I  thought  we  must  be 
pretty  near  the  front  as  there  was  so  many. 
Some  of  the  Frenchmen  wore  helmets.  That's 
about  all  that  most  of  the  Frogs  have  got 
left  now.  Never  saw  so  many  widows  in  all 
my  days.  Most  of  the  women  who  was 
dressed  up  at  all  wore  black  and  long  veils. 
They  made  me  think  'bout  the  war,  and  I 
felt  kinda  good  'cause  there  wasn't  any 
woman  to  wear  black  in  case  I  got  knocked 
off  at  the  front. 

"Some  Americans,  who  acted  as  though 
they  had  just  bought  the  town  and  could  end 
the  war  with  a  snap  of  their  fingers,  came 
down  to  the  edge  of  the  locks  and  began  shoot- 
in*  the  bull.  Most  of  the  Americans  wanted 
to  know  how  the  football  games  were  coming 
off  in  the  States.  We  told  them  we  didn't 
know  as  they  hadn't  started  good  when  we 
left.  I  had  to  explain  to  one  guy  that  we 
didn't  come  over  on  an  express  and  that  it 
took  nearly  a  month  to  get  here.  He  began 
tellin*  me  where  we  could  get  our  money 
changed  and  where  the  best  champagne  was 
and  how  to  do  things  in  general  while  in 
France.  I  asked  him  if  he  had  been  to  the 
front  yet  and  he  said,  'Oh  no,  I'm  a  receivin'- 

53 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

clerk,  with  the  grade  of  corporal.'  'The  hell 
you  are!  I  though  you  had  been  up  endin' 
the  war,'  says  I.  But  he  didn't  seem  to  get 
my  meanin'. 

"They  kept  us  on  that  boat  two  days. 
Durin'  that  time  some  little  French  kids  who 
could  parley  a  little  English  rowed  out  in  a 
tub  and  sold  us  beaucoup  van  rouge  and 
cognac.  About  half  of  the  ship  got  zig-zag 
toot  sweet.  I  thought  they'd  put  us  in  irons. 

"Finally  we  got  marched  ashore  and 
through  the  town  to  our  barracks.  Some  bar- 
racks for  a  white  man  I'll  say.  No  bunks. 
No  floor.  No  stoves.  Nothing  but  a  roof 
and  the  ground.  It  comes  easy  now  to  cushay 
on  a  bag  of  ten-penny  nails,  but  in  them  days 
sleepin'  on  the  cold  bumpy  ground  was  just 
as  bad  as  missin*  your  weekly  Saturday  bath 
in  the  States. 

"I'll  never  forget  my  first  night  in  France. 
I  got  put  in  the  jug.  Those  damn  American 
M.  P.'s  of  course.  Ever  since  then  I  ain't 
had  much  love  for  that  branch  of  the  service. 
Course  we  don't  see  too  much  of  them  up  at 
the  front,  but  they  get  in  a  man's  way  now 
and  then.  Seems  as  though  you  had  to  have 
a  pass  to  be  on  the  streets.  As  usual  I 
never  had  any  pass,  so  they  grabbed  me, 

54 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

Samson,  Johnson,  and  Kicky  Hull.  When  we 
got  to  the  brig  we  found  practically  the 
whole  outfit  lined  up  there. 

"We  had  a  fair  time  the  first  few  days. 
But  I  had  a  job  tryin  to  compree  this  foolish- 
looking  French  money.  Say,  0.  D.,  ain't  it 
the  worst  stuff  you  ever  handled?  For  one 
good  ten-spot,  American  dough,  I'd  give  'em 
all  the  frankers  they  ever  printed.  Pas  bon, 
that  stuff. 

"I  met  one  fine  French  family  in  that 
town.  There  was  the  mother,  father,  and  girl. 
Her  name  was  Suzanne,  and,  honest,  boy,  she 
was  a  little  rose  mademoiselle.  Pretty  and 
delicate-like,  you  know,  and  could  speak  Eng- 
lish in  that  bon  way  that  these  janes 
over  here  parley  American  after  studyin'  it. 
Lots  better  than  you  or  me  can.  Suzanne 
and  her  people  were  regular  folks.  Why,  they 
were  almost  the  same  as  Americans.  Had  all 
kinds  of  stuff  in  the  house,  stoves  and  pianos, 
like  us,  and  did  mostly  as  we  do,  except  I 
never  saw  them  drinking  water. 

"Well,  Suzanne  had  a  fiance,  a  young 
French  lieutenant,  and  she  was  always  talk- 
in'  about  him  and  how  much  she  loved  him. 
She  hated  the  Germans  worse  than  rats.  All 
Suzanne  wanted  to  do  was  end  the  war,  have 

55 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

her  fiance  come  home  and  get  married.  Her 
people  was  pretty  wealthy  for  French  people. 
Had  a  big  stationery  and  athletic-goods  store. 
They  sure  tried  to  make  life  worth  while  for 
old  Samson  and  myself.  Believe  Sammy  was 
a  bit  stuck  on  Suzanne,  but  he  never  said 
nothin'  'bout  it  to  me.  He  could  parley  a  lit- 
tle bit,  and  it  used  to  get  me  mad  as  hell  to  go 
into  a  store  or  any  place  and  have  him  start 
that  French  stuff  and  talk  to  the  people  when 
I  couldn't  get  a  word  of  the  lingo. 
''We  must  have  had  a  reputation  as  cham- 
bermaids for  mules,  'cause  they  put  the  bat- 
tery to  work  in  another  corral,  cleaning  it  up 
and  feedin'  the  animals.  Sometimes  they 
used  to  wake  us  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night 
and  send  us  down  to  ships  that  had  just  come 
in  so  that  we  could  lead  the  mules  up  to  the 
corral.  That  was  some  job.  The  mules  would 
be  wilder  than  ever  after  bein'  penned  up  on 
a  boat  so  long,  and  time  they'd  hit  the  street 
they  usually  started  tearin'  off.  If  any  of  us 
happened  to  have  hold  of  them  mules  at  the 
time,  we  mostly  went  with  the  mule. 

"After  a  month  of  that  kind  of  work  we 

were  sent  to  Camp  Coetquidan  to  learn  how 

to  fight  the  guerre  with  real  cannon.     When 

we  got  to  camp  the  other  batteries  had  al- 

56 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

ready  found  out  how  to  fire  the  guns  and 
were  blowin'  away  at  anything  for  a  target. 
It  didn't  take  us  long  to  find  out  how  those 
six-inch  howitzers  worked.  The  French  called 
'em  sonn  sankont-sanks,  which  means  one 
hundred  and  fifty-fives. 

"I'll  never  get  in  another  guerre  again  as 
long  as  I  live,  but  if  I  do  get  mixed  up  in  an- 
other I'll  keep  clear  of  France  and  especially 
Coetquidan.  Rain — mud — mud — rain.  All 
day  and  all  night  at  that  hole.  We  slept  in 
the  barracks  that  Napoleon  and  his  army 
used  to  cushay  in.  No  wonder  he  always  had 
his  hand  in  his  shirt.  Guess  he  was  scratch- 
in'.  No,  there  wasn't  any  cooties  there.  But 
they  had  some  kind  of  bed- ticks  or  ground 
rats  that  used  to  bite  us  up  pretty  bad.  Bein' 
about  the  first  fightin*  troops  over  we  couldn't 
expect  to  have  gloves,  shower-baths,  and 
warm  barracks.  The  only  thing  that  was  is- 
sued was  beaucoup  reserve  officers. 

"I  got  a  pass  to  be  away  from  camp  for 
two  days  and  went  down  to  a  place  called 
Kennes,  'bout  thirty-eight  kilofloppera  from 
camp.  It  took  six  hours  to  get  there  on  the 
little  narrow-gauge,  and  I  spent  all  my  time 
down  there  in  a  big  house  where  I  got  a  bain 
— that's  what  the  Frogs  say  for  bath — tryin' 

57 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

to  get  clean.     Didn't  get  another  bain  unt# 
two  months  later  at  the  front. 

"Saw  a  lot  of  Boche  prisoners  down  there. 
Course  we  seen  quite  a  few  at  St.  Nazaire,  but 
didn't  have  a  chance  to  say  anything  to  *em. 
They  must  have  knew  we  was  green  at  this 
guerre  stuff,  as  they  asked  us  for  cigarettes 
and  chocolate,  and  we  was  fools  enough  to 
hand  'em  some.  Catch  me  givin'  them  dirty 
sausage-meats  cigarettes  now.  'Caput'  for 
'em  all,  that's  what  the  Frogs  say. 

"After  Christmas  passed  and  we  got  our 
first  real  batch  of  mail —  Say,  0.  D.,  I  guess 
you  get  a  bunch  of  mail  from  your  ma  and 
sis,  don't  you?"  asked  Jimmy. 

"I've  been  getting  about  four  letters  a 
week,  but  guess  I'll  have  to  wait  until  it  gets 
forwarded  to  me  now,"  acknowledged  O.  D. 

"Mon  Du!"  was  the  ejaculation,  "four  a 
week.  Gosh,  you're  lucky.  Why,  I've  only 
got  seventeen  since  I  hit  this  country. 
Course  there's  nobody  to  write  me  but  a  few 
of  the  boys  down  at  the  newspaper  office  who 
couldn't  pass  the  physicals " 

"Is  that  a  fact,  Jimmy?" 

"Ow.     Bet  your  tin  hat." 

"Don't  see  how  you  stand  this  life  without 
letters." 

58 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

"Comes  tough  at  times,  'specially  when 
the  other  guys  gets  beaucoup  letters.  Kinda 
feel  like  a  nobody.  But  generally  some  thin* 
turns  up — we  start  drivin' — or  the  Boches 
get  some  guts  and  throw  a  few  over.  Then 
there  ain't  much  chance  to  think  about  sucn 
things."  Jimmy  spoke  as  if  a  few  letters 
could  do  a  great  deal  toward  winning  wars. 

"By  George,  I'm  goin'  to  get  Mary  to 

write  to  you  right How  do  you  say  it 

in  French,  Jimmy?" 

"Toot  sweet/'  prompted  the  Yank,  with 
new  hope  in  his  tones. 

"Well,  I'll  have  Mary  write  you  toot 
sweet,  then — that  is,  if  you  want  me  to." 

"Want  you  to —  -  Whew,  boy,  that'll  save 
my  life.  Will  you?"  he  asked,  eagerly. 

"Sure,"  assured  O.  D. 


V 

WE    WAS    OFF   FOR    THE    FRONT ! 

BEFOEE  he  had  joined  the  army  and  been 
through  a  lot  of  front-line  stuff  Jimmy 
McGee  thought  that  it  was  mighty  romantic 
to  wear  a  uniform  and  carry  a  gun  off  to  war. 
But  somebody  spilled  the  beans  for  him  pretty 
soon.  Jimmy  couldn't  find  any  romance  in 
the  mud  and  rain  when  his  chief  ration  was 
black  coffee,  canned  beef,  and  hardtack. 
When  0.  D.  said  that  he  would  have  Mary 
write  to  him  something  stirred  'way  down  in 
him  that  hadn't  stirred  since  he  had  quit 
thinking  about  war  as  a  romantic  expedition, 
and  Jimmy  was  pretty  sure  that  the  romance 
stuff  was  coming  back  to  life  again. 

"Wonder  if  Mary  would  want  a  souvenir 
of  this  guerre?"  asked  Jimmy,  thoughtfully. 

"I  know  she  would,  because  before  I  left 
she  made  me  promise  to  bring  back  a  German 
helmet  or  something  from  the  battles.  But 
of  course  I  haven't  been  near  a  fight  yet," 
answered  0.  D. 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

"Mary  gets  the  helmet  that  I  took  from 
that  Boche  major,  and  toot  sweet,  you  can 
bet  on  that,"  declared  McGee. 

"But  you'll  want  to  keep  the  helmet  your- 
self, Jimmy/' 

"Hell  afire,  the  helmet's  Mary's.  There's 
no  use  waitin'  until  the  guerre  is  finee  before 
I  give  it  to  her,  is  there?"  blurted  out  Jim- 
my, confusedly. 

"No — guess  not.  Send  it  to  her,  then. 
Mary '11  be  tickled  to  death  with  it  and  to 
know  that  it  comes  from  a  real  soldier  who's 
been  wounded.  But  go  on  with  what  you 
were  tellin'  me.  "When  did  you  get  sent  up 
to  the  front?" 

"Arrh,  we  hung  'round  Coetquidan  until 
'bout  February  first,  then  we  got  orders  to 
partee.  We  was  darn  sure  that  we  was  goin' 
to  the  front,  but  didn't  have  no  idea  what 
part  of  it.  Anyhow,  if  you  had  told  us  we 
wouldn't  have  known  any  better,  as  we  never 
paid  any  particular  attention  to  any  special 
fronts.  All  we  knew  was  that  the  front  was 
the  front. 

"Guess  you  know  by  now  that  we  don't 
travel  first-class  in  this  country.  You've  seen 
them  little  cars  that  looks  like  a  shoe-box  set 
on  wheels,  marked,  '40  Jiommes' — that's  forty 

61 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

like  you  and  me — and  '8  chevaux' — means 
eight  horses  or  as  many  mules.  Well, 
that's  the  kind  of  parlor-cars  that  I've  been 
tourin'  France  in.  I  always  get  in  a  horse- 
car  if  I  can,  as  it's  warmer,  and,  supposin' 
the  chevaux  don't  step  all  over  you,  there's  a 
chance  to  lay  down  and  cork  off  a  bit. 

"They  loaded  us  bag  and  baggage  on  a 
train  of  them  kind  of  cars  and  a  Frog  blew 
some  kind  of  a  horn.  We  was  off  for  the 
front.  God  a 'mighty,  you  should  have  heard 
them  Yanks  cheerin'  as  we  headed  for  the 
front.  Passed  through  a  lot  of  big  towns  and 
beaucoup  villages  where  all  of  the  Frogs  came 
out  to  look  at  us  as  if  we  was  a  travelin' 
circus.  Come  pretty  near  starvin'  before  we 
got  where  we  was  goin'. 

"Stayed  on  the  train  all  one  night  and  one 
whole  day.  About  seven  o'clock  of  the  second 
night  I  squirmed  into  about  three  feet  of  floor 
space  and  cushayed.  Must  have  slept  pretty 
good,  'cause  next  thing  I  knew  somebody  was 
shakin'  me  and  yellin',  'Hey,  come  out  of  it, 
Jimmy — get  up,  we're  at  the  front.'  Gee! 
I  snaps  into  it  and  rushes  out  of  the  door 
expectin*  to  see  the  front  right  outside.  It 
was  pretty  dark,  but  I  looked  hard  and 
couldn't  see  no  Germans  or  trenches.  It  was 

62 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

quiet  as  death.  I  says  to  Frank  Reynolds, 
who  was  top-sergeant  of  E  Battery — you 
see,  I  had  transferred  from  C  to  E — 'Where 
the  hell  is  it?'  'What?'  he  asks.  'The  front, 
you  nut,'  I  told  him.  'Oh,  it's  right  around 
here,'  and  he  waved  his  arms  around  pointin' 
in  every  direction. 

"I  couldn't  see  nothin'  but  a  railroad  sta- 
tion and  some  flat  cars.  'Funniest  front  I've 
ever  been  on,'  said  one  of  them  Mexican-bor- 
der veterans.  'This  ain't  no  front,'  says  I. 

"  'Bout  that  time  it  sounded  as  if  there 
was  goin'  to  be  a  thunder-shower.  Everybody 
looked  at  one  another  kinda  funny-like.  We 
heard  the  thunder  encore.  I  looked  to  the 
north  and  there  was  a  lot  of  flashes  showin' 
against  the  sky.  The  thunder  began  to  growl 
like  a  bunch  of  bears  over  a  big  bone.  Some 
rockets  shot  up  and  spilled  a  lot  of  sparks. 
A  smart  guy  had  to  remark  that  they  must 
be  havin'  a  Fourth  of  July  up  there,  but  I  was 
too  busy  tryin'  to  compree  that  them  things 
meant  war.  I  kept  sayin'  to  myself,  'That's 
a  war  goin'  on  out  there;  that's  the  thing  we 
came  up  here  to  get  in.' 

"They  talk  a  lot  about  thrills  in  love-stories 
and  books,  but  those  story-page  people  don't 
know  a  thrill  from  a  bowl  of  mush  compared 
5  63 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

to  the  things  that  was  runnin'  up  and  down 
my  backbone  that  first  night.  Course  you 
know  the  guns  and  flashes  was  quite  a  ways, 
'bout  twenty  kilos  from  where  we  was,  and 
there  wasn't  much  danger  of  us  gettin'  in  any 
trouble  ourselves.  But  seem'  and  hearin'  just 
got  me  to  thinkin'  about  the  old  guerre  and 
knowin*  that  we  was  in  it  at  last — well,  it 
kind  of  made  me  feel  a  little  different,  that's 
all. 

"We  harnessed  the  old  chevaux  up,  hooked 
'em  to  the  guns  and  got  all  the  other  junk, 
includin'  them  f  our  g  eons — French  wagons, 
you  know — started.  'Bout  dawn  we  rumbled 
through  a  town  that  looked  as  if  it  had  been 
shut  up  for  the  winter.  Wasn't  a  light  goin'. 
Not  a  pup  on  the  streets.  Nothin'  but  us. 
There  was  beaucoup  houses  all  shot  to  hell — 
roofs  gone,  windows  out,  walls  cavin'  in. 
Some  places  were  nothin'  but  rubbish.  There 
was  so  little  left  of  a  few  houses  that  you 
couldn't  have  salvaged  a  thing  even  if  you 
had  a  pull  with  the  guy  at  the  salvage  dump. 
I  found  out  later  that  the  name  of  the  place 
was  Swasson  (Soissons).  Must  have  been 
some  battlin'  'round  that  joint. 

"After  leavin*  Swasson  we  hit  a  road  that 
led  right  up  to  the  trenches,  or  damn  near  it, 

64 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

anyway.  Anybody,  even  an  S.  0.  S.  bird 
with  six  months'  experience  in  Paris,  would 
have  guessed  that  we  must  be  somewhere  near 
the  front.  There  was  old  trenches  runnin' 
every  which  way;  at  that  time  I  thought  the 
detail  that  dug  'em  must  have  been  zigzag, 
as  all  of  the  trenches  was  crooked  like  a 
bunch  of  old  dead  snakes.  I  saw  beaucoup 
barbed  wire  stretched  'round.  But  I've  seen 
lots  more  since  that  day. 

"As  we  hiked  along  a  gun  would  boom  out 
some  place  up  along  the  front.  Wasn't  none 
of  that  war  stuff  that  you  look  for  after 
readin'  some  war  books.  Just  now  and  then 
a  boom  and  a  flash  or  two. 

"It  was  mighty  cold  ridin*  a  horse  that 
night.  Bein'  from  Florida,  I  ain't  used  to 
much  cold  weather,  and  my  hands  and  feet 
come  pretty  near  bein'  ice  before  we  finally 
got  to  our  echelon  near  a  tumbled-down  vil- 
lage called  Chassemy.  Listen  'bout  that 
echelon  stuff.  It  was  somethin'  new  to  me 
before  I  got  to  the  front,  as  I  never  took 
Greek  at  school.  Well,  it  seems  that  echelon 
means  the  place  that  ain't  quite  at  the  front, 
but  just  about  as  bad,  bein'  as  how  the  Boche 
can  always  shell  echelons  with  big  guns.  The 
men,  horses,  and  other  things  that  ain't 
65 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

needed  at  the  front  all  the  time  stay  at  the 
echelon  till  they  send  for  them.  Time  we 
made  the  echelon  everybody  was  so  sleepy 
that  we  didn't  wait  to  unroll,  but  just 
sprawled  about  on  the  barrack  floor  and  cu- 
shayed. 

"I  came  to  about  four  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon and  we  started  to  hunt  somethin'  to  eat, 
naturally.  Everybody  was  damn  curious  to 
know  just  where  the  front  was.  Nobody 
seemed  to  know  just  exactly  what  way  to  take 
to  get  to  it  and  to  our  positions.  You  see, 
we  were  to  relieve  the  French.  There  was 
nothin'  else  to  do  but  wait  'round. 

"/Finally,  two  days  later,  three  French 
officers  came  over  and  got  the  Cap  to  go  off 
with  them  to  reconnoiter.  He  came  back  that 
night  and  told  us  that  we  would  move  the 
guns  into  position  next  day. 

"Next  night  we  took  the  four  pieces  and 
everythin'  needed  to  fight  the  guerre  with 
and  hit  for  the  front.  You  can  imagine  us 
goin*  to  the  front  for  the  first  time.  Lots 
of  the  boys  was  expectin'  a  battle  before  we 
got  up  there  and  other  guys  kept  lookin'  for 
dead  men  or  wounded.  It  was  the  same  as 
walkin'  to  church  on  Sunday.  We  got  to  the 
front  without  knowin*  it. 
€6 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

"  'Here  we  are,'  says  the  skipper,  and  he 
halted  the  column  on  the  side  of  a  road.  The 
top-sergeant  thought  he  was  tryin'  to  fool  us 
and  asked  him  what  the  halt  was  for.  'Do 
you  want  to  go  out  in  No  Man's  Land?'  asked 
the  Cap.  To  tell  the  truth,  it  was  hard  for 
any  of  us  to  believe  that  we  were  at  the 
front.  You'll  find  that  the  front  ain't  what 
it's  cracked  up  to  be,  in  a  way. 

"We  put  the  guns  in  four  positions  that 
had  already  been  built  by  the  French  and 
camouflaged  'em  with  a  lot  of  nettin'.  When 
I  saw  'em  in  daylight  I  thought  I  was  lookin' 
at  a  scene  in  a  theater.  The  gun  positions 
was  right  on  the  road,  mind  you — any  one 
passin'  could  see  'em,  and  I  thought  that  we 
would  hide  the  things  'way  down  in  some 
kind  of  a  mysterious  valley,  or  somethin' 
like  that. 

"Our  homes  were  'way  down  under  the 
earth,  dug-outs  they  call  'em.  No  chance 
much  to  keep  warm  in  dug-outs,  and  two  men 
couldn't  pass  each  other  in  'em,  they  was  so 
narrow.  We  cushayed  on  wooden  planks. 
Every  thing,  kitchens,  officers'  quarters,  and 
all,  were  down  in  dug-outs.  When  you  did 
get  upon  the  ground  you  had  to  be  mighty 
careful  as  there  was  leaucoup  shell-holes. 

67 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

The  fields  looked  as  if  they  had  the  smallpox 
— and  it  was  hard  to  keep  from  fallin*  into 
them  shell-holes. 

"After  foolin'  around  with  the  old  army 
stuff  of  changin*  orders  a  hundred  times  a 
day  we  put  over  our  first  shots  by  register- 
in*  on  a  brewery  that  the  Germans  was  sup- 
posed to  live  in.  Before  I  forget  it  let  me 
tell  you  one  of  the  funniest  things  about 
fronts.  Our  guns  pointed  one  way  and  the 
front  was  in  another,  or  almost  that  bad,  any- 
way. I  kept  thinkin'  the  lines  was  out  beyond 
the  muzzles  of  our  pieces,  but  the  Cap  said 
that  it  was  off  to  the  right  more  and  that  if 
we  walked  that  way  we'd  most  likely  run  into 
the  Germans'  first-line  trenches.  Sure  was  a 
puzzle  to  me  for  a  long  time. 

"Well,  can't  say  that  there  was  any  too 
much  excitement  up  on  the  old  Cheman  de 
Damns  front  (Chemin  des  Dames)  except  the 
mornin'  that  Jimmy  Leach,  our  cook,  made 
real  biscuits.  It's  a  wonder  the  Heinies  didn't 
hear  us  hollerin'  and  come  over,  we  made  so 
much  fuss  over  those  biscuits.  Then  there 
was  hell  to  pay  after  we  put  over  a  big  bar- 
rage once.  You  compree  barrages,  don't  you, 
that's  when  all  the  big  and  little  guns  start 
popping  off  at  once  accordin'  to  some  kind  of 

68 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

a  schedule  and  generally  the  doughboys  go 
over  under  the  barrage  to  attack  the  Boche 
trenches.  You  see,  before  we  got  up  there 
the  Boches  and  French  were  fightin*  the 
guerre  like  this,  'You  don't  shoot  and  I 
won't.'  We  changed  that  argument  toot 
sweet  by  startin'  in  with  barrages  and  raids. 
Naturally  the  Germans  got  mad  and  came 
back  at  us.  That  made  the  French  hotter 
than  hell.  A  general  came  right  over  to  our 
general  and  said  it  had  to  be  stopped.  No 
wonder  the  guerre  ain't  ended.  As  we  was 
under  the  French  command  we  had  to  do  ae- 
cordin'  to  orders. 

"You  might  think  that  we  got  into  the 
ways  of  the  guerre  with  an  awful  jolt.  But 
we  didn't.  It  just  came  to  us  gradual  like. 
We  got  used  to  the  whine  of  a  shell  and  got 
so  we  could  tell  when  they  was  comin'  and 
goin'.  There  wasn't  many  casualties.  Few 
fellows  got  bumped  off  in  the  infantry  on 
raidin'  parties.  We  lost  a  couple  or  so  in 
the  artillery. 

"I  saw  my  first  dead  man,  killed  in  the 
guerre,  about  three  weeks  after  goin'  in  the 
line.  Fragments  of  a  shell  had  hit  him  in 
two  or  three  places.  He  was  messed  up  all 
over  one  side  of  the  road.  I  couldn't  tell 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

much  if  he  was  a  man  or  mule,  the  way  he 
was  scattered  'round.  A  fellow  standin'  near 
said  it  was  Bill  Rand,  a  lad  I  used  to  sleep 
in  the  same  tent  with  at  B  oxford.  Course  I 
was  sorry  for  poor  Bill,  but  it  didn't  worry 
me  much.  Never  thought  of  it  anymore — • 
that's  the  way  it's  been  for  all  the  boys. 
Just  got  used  to  takin'  the  guerre  as  it  came 
along. 

"The  cooties  got  on  us  up  there  and  I 
ain't  been  lonesome  for  'em  since  that  time — • 
don't  believe  a  fellow  can  ever  get  rid  of  the 
damn  things.  Gas  was  the  big  thing  that 
scared  me  at  first.  Now  it's  bombs.  O.  D., 
one  of  them  Boche  planes  dronin'  over  your 
bean,  waitin'  to  pull  up  his  tailboard  and 
let  a  bomb  drop,  is  the  worst  thing  I  ever 
want  to  be  up  against.  You  'ain't  got  a  bit 
of  protection,  unless,  of  course,  you're  'way 
under  the  ground. 

"Talkin'  about  the  gas  stuff  reminds  me 
of  what  happened  to  Bill  Conway.  Bill  was 
an  old  regular,  been  in  the  service  eighteen 
years,  soldiered  every  place  the  American 
flag  ever  flew  and  told  us  that  gas,  bombs, 
and  shrapnel  all  tied  up  in  one  bag  couldn't 
made  him  budge.  We  knew  Bill  pretty  well 
and  if  there  was  anything  that  had  him  licked 

70 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

it  was  gas.  He  used  to  go  to  sleep  with  his 
mask  on  sometimes.  Well,  Jimmy  Leach  and 
a  few  of  us  decided  to  get  Bill  one  night, 
so  we  hid  his  old  gas-mask  and  when  he  got 
in  the  dug-out  somebody  beat  on  a  tin  can 
and  bawled  out,  'Gas — gas!' 

"Say,  you  would  have  died  laughin'  at  old 
Bill.  He  jumps  for  his  mask.  Nothin'  doin'. 
He  tried  to  take  Jimmy  Leach's,  but  couldn't. 
Everybody  had  piled  into  the  bunks  and  pulled 
blankets  over  their  heads.  Some  of  'em  be- 
gan groanin'  and  coughin'.  'Oh,  my  God, 
I'm  gassed,  I'm  gassed!'  yelled  Bill,  and  he 
dived  under  a  pile  of  his  own  blankets.  'So 
am  I,'  shouted  Leach,  comin'  up  for  air.  The 
rest  of  us  all  threw  the  blankets  back  and 
began  smokin'.  Finally,  after  'bout  half  an 
hour,  and  he  nearly  suffocated,  Bill  stuck  his 
head  out  and  saw  us  and  that  there  wasn't 
any  gas.  Maybe  he  didn't  cuss  us  out!  Said 
we  were  tin  soldiers  and  belonged  to  a  tin 
army.  Some  day  if  I  ever  get  back  to  my 
old  newspaper  job  and  a  typewriter  I'm  goin' 
to  write  a  book  about  Bill  Conway  and  call 
it  Tin  Sojers. 


VI 


AMERICAN    JOANS    OF    ARC 

"  A  MONTH  and  a  half  wa 
jL±   for  us  on  the  Cheman  de  Damns  front. 

We  parteed  'bout  March  fifteenth  or  so  and 
got  on  another  one  of  them  funny  little 
trains — didn't  stay  on  long — only  'bout  fifteen 
hours. 

1  'Detrained  at  Chateau-Brienne  and  started 
hiking  over  the  road  to  our  rest-camp.  We 
was  due  for  a  rest,  also  furloughs.  But  I  ain't 
seen  neither  of  them  things  so  far.  That 
country  down  there  sure  was  the  darb  for  us. 
It  was  just  turnin'  off  kind  of  spring-like  and 
warm,  too.  We  were  the  first  Americans  to 
go  through  that  section,  and  the  people — 
honest,  0.  D.,  they  must  have  thought  that  we 
were  American  Joans  of  Arc.  Everybody 
came  rushin'  to  the  doors  and  waved  to  us. 
The  mademoiselles  threw  us  kisses  by  the 
bushel.  I  got  so  excited  that  I  muffed  most 
of  'em  that  came  my  way. 

"After  bein'  up  in  that  mud-coated  front 
72 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

country  where  you  hardly  ever  saw  human 
bein's,  just  soldiers,  and  where  all  of  the 
houses  had  holes  in  'em  and  the  gardens  were 
all  torn  up  by  shells,  it  was  great  to  get  back 
where  the  fields  was  green  and  people  smiled 
and  said  nice  things.  I  was  gettin'  to  this 
French  stuff  'bout  that  time  and  I  could 
compree  a  little  of  what  they  said. 

"Our  first  stop  was  at  a  little  town  called 
Dienville.  We  blew  in  with  the  band  playin' 
and  everybody  happy.  The  villagers  gave  us 
the  hell  of  a  fine  welcome  and  made  us  feel 
to  home  toot  sweet.  Bight  after  I  put  my 
horse  on  the  picket-line  and  camouflaged  my 
equipment  I  started  lookin'  for  something  to 
monjay  and  a  place  to  cusihay.  First  store 
I  hit  was  a  baker  shop — boulangerie,  they  say 
in  Fransay.  The  shop  was  full  of  women 
and  little  girls.  They  was  talkin'  a  mile  a 
minute.  That's  the  fastest  thing  they  do  in 
this  country,  you  know,  parley — and  every 
few  minutes  I  could  hear  'em  say  ' Ameri- 
cains — Americains. ' 

"Finally  I  asked  'bout  monjayin'  and  they 
told  me  where  the  restaurant  was.  I  never 
had  tried  to  get  a  chambre  before,  but  I  got 
parley  in'  'bout  a  place  to  cushay,  and  a  little 
girl  'bout  twelve  years  old  and  pretty — listen 

73 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

to  me,  0.  D.,  that  child  was  the  darb  of  a 
petite  mademoiselle.  She  asked  her  mother 
how  'bout  my  stayin'  with  them,  or  it  sounded 
that  way  to  me.  Course  I  said  in  my  foolish 
French,  'Keskesayf  which  means,  What  did 
you  say? 

"The  mademoiselle  was  a  litttle  timid. 
Guess  I'm  kind  of  hard  to  look  at,  anyway. 
She  got  closer  to  her  mother,  but  she  didn't 
hide  them  pretty  blue  eyes.  Looked  me 
straight  in  the  face  and  said  her  mother,  the 
madame,  would  fix  me  up  on  the  cushay  stuff. 
Then  I  got  kind  of  brave  myself  and  went 
over  to  her  and  her  mother.  The  girl  put  her 
hand  in  mine  toot  sweet  and  said,  'Comrade.' 
I  never  was  much  for  bein'  'round  children, 
but  I  grabbed  her  and  threw  her  up  and 
down  like  I  have  seen  daddies  do.  She  kissed 
me  smack  on  the  cheek  and  said  her  name 
was  Louise. 

"That  little  mademoiselle's  kiss  was  the 
first  one  I  had  in  a  long  time,  0.  D.  Some- 
times I  still  get  the  taste  of  it,  as  I  'ain't  had 
another  since.  Louise  and  the  madame  was 
more  than  jauntee,  which  as  I  compree  it 
means  nice,  or  kind.  They  fed  me  dey  zerfs, 
der  lay — that's  eggs  and  milk — and  beaucoup 
pom  de  tear  frits  for  every  monjay.  I  cu- 
74 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

slwyed  in  a  real  lee — Frog  for  bed — that 
night,  and  honest  it  took  me  near  three  hours 
to  get  asleep,  the  bed  was  so  soft.  Next  morn- 
in'  I  fooled  'em  and  didn't  answer  reveille — 
cushayed  till  'bout  nine  bells  and  got  up, 
shaved  with  real  hot  water,  washed  as  far 
down  my  neck  as  my  hand  could  go  and  sure 
felt  fittin'  for  anything. 

"Louise  had  beat  it  to  school,  but  the 
madame  saved  a  big  bowl  of  cafe-ooo-lay — O. 
D.,  if  you  ever  drink  a  bowl  of  real  French 
cafe-ooo-lay  you'll  never  be  satisfied  with 
that  stuff  they  serve  in  Childs >  or  the  Waldorf . 
It's  coffee  with  beaucoup  hot  milk,  and  it  sure 
is  the  darb.  Along  with  that  cafe-ooo-lay  I 
had  a  hunk  of  regular  du  pan.  Frog  bread 
is  bon  when  it's  made  right — and  some  du 
burre — butter,  you  know.  Madame  kept  par- 
ley in'  some  thin'  'bout  dey  zerfs — which  are 
eggs  in  American — but  I  told  her  that  I'd 
wait  till  dinner  to  monjay  the  omelet. 

"While  I  was  gettin'  away  with  the  petite 
dayjunay — as  madame  called  what  I  was 
monjayin' — she  told  me  that  her  marrieh,  her 
husband,  was  a  lieutenant  in  the  Frog  artil- 
lery— swasont  Jeans — which  means  the  same 
as  our  three-inch  pieces.  Showed  me  beau- 
coup  pictures  of  the  old  man  and  lots  of 

75 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

souvenirs.  He'd  been  in  the  guerre  three  and 
a  half  years — wounded  three  times.  I  began 
thinkin'  that  us  Americans  didn't  have  so 
much  kick  comin'  bein'  as  how  we  were  about 
four  years  late  in  gettin'  in  against  the 
Kaiser. 

"When  Louise  came  home  from  school  she 
took  me  out  for  a  walk.  Say,  you  ought  to 
have  seen  the  guys  pike  me  off.  'What  you 
doin',  Jimmy,  teachin'  kindergarten?'  lots 
of  'em  asked  me.  I  told  'em  no,  that  she  was 
my  fiancee  and  was  goin'  to  partee  to 
Amerique  with  me.  Louise  compreed  that 
line  and  said,  'Oui'  all  the  time. 

"There  was  a  band  concert  in  the  little 
square  that  afternoon,  and,  believe  me,  the 
Frogs  sure  enjoyed  it.  They  hadn't  heard 
any  music  since  the  guerre  started,  except  the 
church  organ,  I  guess.  I  had  a  flock  of  little 
mademoiselles  hangin'  on  to  me  by  that  time, 
as  Louise  was  mighty  popular  with  'em  all. 
Course,  as  luck  would  have  it,  I  had  a  bar  or 
two  of  chocolate  in  my  jeans,  and  I  handed 
it  over  to  Louise  and  her  little  friends.  Boy, 
they  thought  I  was  a  regular  Santa  Glaus 
after  that. 

"When  we  left  Dienville  two  days  later  all 
the  kids  in  the  village  was  cryin'  because  the 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

Americans  was  parteein'.  I  sure  got  to  hand 
it  to  those  people  in  that  place,  they  was  the 
old  darb  for  us.  Course  things  has  changed 
a  good  deal  since  then — we  ain't  new  to  the 
Frogs  any  more  and  lots  of  'em  with  stuff  to 
sell  have  found  out  that  we  get  a  darn  sight 
more  /rankers  a  month  than  the  Frog  army 
pays. 

"We  hiked  'bout  five  days  or  so,  stoppin' 
every  night  in  some  village  and  finally  got  to 
the  area  which  was  to  be  our  rest-camp.  Just 
got  settled  in  the  billets  when  we  got  an  order 
to  partee  toot  sweet.  We  was  kinda  sore,  but 
most  of  us  said,  'Say  la  guerre,'  and  let  it  go 
at  that.  Nobody  knew  what  the  hell  it  meant 
as  we  was  miles  from  newspapers  and  tele- 
graph wires,  and  never  got  any  news  of  the 
guerre.  That's  how  we  started  the  seven- 
teen-day hike  from  down  around  Joinville 
straight  up  to  the  Toul  front. 

"That  hike  was  one  of  the  worst  things 
we  bucked  against  durin'  this  guerre.  There 
wasn't  but  two  days  on  which  the  sun  came 
out  at  all.  It  rained  day  and  night.  The 
roads  was  all  mud  and  so  slippery  that  the 
men  and  horses  was  slidin'  all  over  the  place. 
There  wasn't  no  way  to  carry  fresh  rations, 
so  we  monjayed  'corn  willy,'  black  coffee,  and 
hardtack  seventeen  days  straight.  The  horses 

77 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

had  a  hell  of  a  time,  too,  as  there  never  was 
enough  hay  and  oats  for  all  of  'em  to  monjay 
at  one  time.  Guess  we  covered  'bout  twenty- 
two  kilofloppers  every  day.  Never  got  up 
later  than  three  bells  in  the  mornin'  and  gen- 
erally got  to  cushay  around  nerver.  That's 
nine  o'clock  in  this  country. 

"When  we  hit  a  town  at  night  we  had  to 
stretch  a  picket-line  for  the  chevaux,  then 
water  and  feed  'em.  After  that  we  could 
feed  ourselves  and  hunt  a  cliambre  or  hay- 
loft to  cushay.  As  a  rule,  the  cliambres  was 
all  for  the  officers  when  we  got  to  'em.  We 
sure  had  a  tough  time  hikin'  across  this  damn 
country.  Never  did  get  warm  the  whole  time. 
'Bout  that  time  my  old  feet  began  to  get 
malade.  Whenever  you  hear  a  Frog  say 
malade  you'll  know  they're  talkin*  about  bein' 
sick.  They  was  so  cold  all  the  time  until 
they  would  swell  up  overnight  and  in  the 
mornin'  you  had  a  fat  chance  of  gettin'  your 
shoes  on,  as  those  darn  hobnails  used  to 
shrink  up  like  a  pair  of  white-flannel  britches 
do  after  washin'  'em.  One  mornin'  the  old 
feet  was  so  bad  that  I  had  to  wear  a  pair  of 
those  wooden  boats  'round.  The  doctors  call 
feet  like  I  had  trench  feet.  I've  had  'em  ever 
since.  Wear  tens  now;  used  to  wear  eights 
and  a  half  back  in  civilian  days." 

78 


VII 

THE  FIRST  BATTLE  OF  THE  GUERRE 

"T  ONG  'bout  April  second  we  passed 
I  J  through  Toul  and  hit  the  American 
front.  The  First  Division  outfits  was  relieved 
there  by  us.  Most  of  our  gang  got  billeted 
'round  a  placed  called  Boucq.  I  was  at 
Cornieville  before  we  went  into  positions. 
Our  billets  were  the  worst  things  a  man  could 
imagine.  Dirty,  cold,  and  hardly  any  bunks 
at  all. 

"We  soon  found  out  that  we  was  goin*  to 
fight  a  different  kind  of  guerre  down  there 
than  we  had  been  doin'.  The  country  was  so 
muddy  and  soft  that  you  couldn't  dig  in  and 
make  dug-outs.  Everything  was  on  the 
ground.  Course  my  battery  had  to  get  the 
worse  place  of  all — up  in  a  swamp.  If  you 
got  off  the  little  duckboard  walks  you  had  to 
get  a  detail  to  pull  you  out  of  the  mud.  The 
positions  that  we  had  was  on  the  Germans' 
maps,  as  they  had  already  got  a  gun  belong- 
ing to  the  First  Division,  before  we  took  the 
position  over. 
6  79 


WHAT  OUTFIT    BUDDY? 

"Two  days  after  we  got  our  pieces  layed 
on  some  Boche  targets  they  began  throwin' 
'em  over  at  us.  That  was  the  first  time  we'd 
ever  been  under  real  shell-fire  in  the  positions. 
It  was  a  regular  circus.  Old  Bill  Conway 
was  on  gas  guard  at  the  time.  They  gave 
us  a  klaxon  for  a  gas  alarm,  unless  it's  pos- 
sible to  rig  up  some  kind  of  a  tin  gong  to 
beat  on.  Well,  Bill,  he  was  walkin'  post 
swingin'  the  Ford  klaxon  'round,  just  as  un- 
interested in  the  guerre  as  if  he  had  been 
walkin'  post  in  a  safe  Coast  Artillery  fort. 
He  had  been  told  to  sound  that  klaxon  in 
case  of  gas.  A  big  boy  whistled  on  the  way. 
Sounds  just  like  the  whine  of  a  dyin'  wild- 
cat. Something  terrible  to  listen  to,  believe 
me,  till  you  get  kind  of  fed  up  on  the  stuff. 

"Bang — Bluey!  That  two-twenty — we  call 
'em  barrack  bags,  they're  so  damn  big — 
landed  'bout  thirty  feet  from  our  last  latrine 
and  sent  fragments  of  itself  and  trees,  with 
about  a  ton  of  dirt,  in  all  directions.  Old 
Conway,  with  his  eighteen  years  of  continued 
service,  started  cranking  that  klaxon  for  all 
he  was  worth  as  he  ran  toward  a  bunkhouse. 

"Bang!    Bang!    Bang! 

"The  Heinies  were  puttin*  'em  over  for 
fair  and  too  damn  close  to  be  interestin'. 
so 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

Course  everybody  jerked  on  the  old  gas- 
mask. But  Bill  Conway  was  so  excited  and 
scared  till  he  clean  forgot  all  about  his  own 
mask — all  he  could  do  was  sound  that  klaxon 
and  shout,  'Gas!'  The  skipper  came  tearin* 
out  of  his  B.  C.  station,  gas-mask  and  all. 
The  first  thing  he  saw  was  Conway  without 
a  mask.  'Put  your  mask  on,  you  boob,  'ain't 
you  got  any  sense?  I'll  court  martial  you  for 
disregardin'  orders.'  Conway  drops  the  klax- 
on and  pulls  the  mask  over  his  bean  and 
face  toot  sweet. 

"Corporal  Keynolds,  who  was  gas  non- 
com.,  comes  up  about  that  time  and  asks  Bill 
what  the  devil  he  sounded  the  gas  alarm  for. 
Bill  says,  'We're  gettin'  gassed.'  Reynolds, 
of  course,  was  expected  to  know  gas  from 
ordinary  fresh  air,  bein'  as  how  he  was  the 
gas  non-com.,  so  he  pulled  his  mask  off  and 
sniffed  'round  considerable.  'Hell  afire,'  says 
he,  'there  ain't  no  gas.'  Everybody  took  off 
their  masks  and  the  skipper  gave  Conway 
extra  fatigue  for  causin'  such  a  disturbance. 

"All  durin'  the  time  that  they  was  arguin' 
'bout  the  gas  the  old  shells  were  sailing  right 
over  our  heads  and  hittin'  pretty  close.  One 
guy  got  a  splinter  in  the  fat  of  his  thigh  and 
Deacon  O'Tell's  underclothes  were  ripped  off 
81 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

a  line  where  he  had  'em  dryin'.  But  that 
was  all  the  casualties  we  had  that  day.  You 
see,  the  woods  was  mighty  tall  and  strong 
there  and  they  sorta  shielded  us  from  the 
fragments  and  hunks. 

''Things  rattled  on  that  way  every  day. 
We  used  to  get  shelled  every  afternoon  'round 
three  or  four  o'clock.  Couple  of  the  boys  got 
it  pretty  soon  and  they  carted  'em  off  to  a 
hospital.  Never  seen  or  heard  of  'em  since. 

"The  monjayln'  was  pas  bon.  Never  got 
any  sugar  in  the  coffee,  and  as  for  milk — 
well,  there  wasn't  any  'round  them  diggin's. 
0.  D.,  that's  one  thing  that  got  my  goat  a 
long  time.  You  read  'bout  all  this  Hoover- 
izin'  stuff.  How  the  folks  back  home  is  doin' 
without  sugar — havin'  wheatless,  meatless, 
fireless  and  all  kind  of  days  so  the  men  at  the 
front  can  get  the  best  monjayin'  there  is — 
and  we  was  starvin'  a  good  many  times. 
Course  if  we  hadn't  been  Americans  we'd 
have  kicked  and  raised  an  awful  smell,  but  be- 
in'  a  bunch  of  Yankees  and  knowin'  what  we 
was  up  against  in  this  guerre,  we  just  fooled 
'em  and  kept  on  regardless.  Now  I  ain't 
sayin'  this  so  much  for  myself,  cause  I'm 
pretty  hefty  and  can  get  along.  But  we  had 
a  bunch  of  little  guys  up  there  that  weren't 
82 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

more  than  a  bunch  of  strings.  Those  kids  used 
to  stay  up  all  night  luggin'  ninety-five-pound 
shells — gettin'  wet  most  of  the  time — then  dive 
into  their  cold  bunks,  cushay  'bout  two  hours 
and  get  up  to  monjay.  "What  the  hell  do  you 
think  they'd  get?  Maybe  a  thin  slice  or  two 
of  bacon — hardtack  most  of  the  time,  black 
coffee  with  no  sugar,  and  that's  all.  Fat 
breakfast  for  a  fightin'  man.  You  can't  blame 
nobody  for  them  things  except  the  people 
back  at  the  ports  and  in  the  S.  O.  S.  who  are 
supposed  to  get  the  eats  up  to  us. 

"That's  a  rotten,  damn  shame,  because  we 
always  got  good  eating  back  where  I  was — 
fresh  meats — vegetables — butter — jam — milk 
in  the  coffee  all  the  time,"  interrupted  0.  D. 

"Listen  to  that,"  exploded  Jimmy.  " There 
you  are — everybody  for  himself  in  this  army. 
Those  ginks  back  there  ain't  worryin'  much 
'bout  us  guys  that's  fightin'  this  guerre. 
'Send  'em  up  a  carload  of  "corn-willy"  and  a 
train  of  hardtack — that'll  be  enough  to  keep 
'em  goin*  another  month  or  two,'  that's  what 
they  say  down  in  the  S.  0.  S.,  I  guess. 

"Round  about  April  tenth  the  Boches 
thought  they'd  give  our  lines  a  good  feel,  so 
they  came  over  strong  and  sent  gas  barrages 
and  high  explosive  mixed  up  with  beaucoup 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

shrapnel  and  other  stuff,  along  with  their 
doughboys.  This  happened  up  in  the  Bois 
Brule — which  means  burned  woods  in  Frog 
lingo.  Now  you  might  think  that  our  boys, 
bein'  a  bit  green  at  the  guerre  stuff,  would 
have  been  sick  to  their  stomachs,  or  some  thin* 
like  that  after  gettin'  such  rough  treatment 
from  the  Boches,  but  it  wasn't  that  way  at 
all.  I  believe  that  most  of  the  doughboys  was 
just  itchin'  for  a  good  battle,  anyway.  The 
way  they  waded  into  the  Boches  was  big  stuff. 
Banged  'em  all  over  the  lots.  When  the 
ammunition  gave  out  the  fellows  started  wal- 
lopin'  'em  with  their  fists  and  the  butt-ends 
of  rifles.  You  know  Boches  ain't  no  good 
when  it  comes  to  fightin'  at  close  quarters. 
In  fact,  if  you  take  'em  out  of  that  close  for- 
mation stuff  that  they  pull  when  comin'  over — 
well,  they  ain't  worth  a  hurrah — so  when  the 
Yanks  shoved  their  fists  in  the  snouts  it  was 
finee  toot  sweet. 

"The  battlin'  kept  up  for  about  three  or 
four  days.  Every  time  the  Boches  tried  to 
get  a  footin'  in  Appremont  we'd  throw  'em 
out  again.  Soon  they  got  tired,  seein'  how 
impossible  it  was  to  stay  there,  and  went 
back  to  their  trenches  and  dug-outs. 

"The  Boches  stayed  quiet  until  the  night  of 

84 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

April  nineteenth,  or  rather  first  thing  in  the 
mornin'  of  the  twentieth.  I  was  up  in  a 
position  so  close  to  the  front-line  trenches 
that  you  could  throw  hand  grenades  at  a 
Yankee  doughboy,  if  he  was  fool  enough  to 
stick  his  bean  over  the  parapet.  About  ten 
men  from  each  battery  had  been  detailed  to 
man  a  ninety-five-millimeter  battery — some 
old-fashioned  French  guns,  relics  of  the  war 
in  1870. 

"Well,  O.  D.,  they  can  talk  'bout  battles 
till  they're  blue  in  the  face,  but  I'll  always 
claim  that  the  battle  of  Seicheprey  which  was 
pulled  off  that  mornin'  was  the  first  big 
battle  of  the  guerre  that  this  army  ever  got 
mixed  up  in.  We  lost  five  hundred  men  that 
one  night  and  the  Boches  lost  a  hell  of  a  lot 
more — so  you  can  judge  by  that. 

"Funny  as  the  devil  how  a  man  kinda 
knows  when  somethin'  big  is  comin'  off.  But 
you  do.  Every  night  there 'd  be  beaucoup 
rockets  and  star-shells  goin'  up.  But  this 
night  there  was  more  than  beaucoup,  if  you 
know  what  that  means.  The  way  those  red 
and  different  colored  rockets  began  goin'  up 
made  me  think  that  a  bunch  of  pink,  yellow, 
and  red  snakes  had  been  turned  loose  in 
heaven  and  was  crawlin'  'round  the  sky.  Now 

85 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

and  then  a  star-shell  would  go  up  and  bust. 
Then  you  could  see  the  trenches  and  No  Man's 
Land.  But  that's  all.  There  wasn't  a  thing 
stirrin'.  Not  a  sound.  Almost  too  quiet  to 
be  safe. 

"Just  at  the  beginnin'  of  one  o'clock  a  Ger- 
man gun  boomed.  Then  hell  broke  loose  all 
along  our  front.  Never  heard  such  an  infer- 
nal noise  in  all  my  life.  Sounded  like  a  bunch 
of  demons  poundin'  on  brass-drums  with  trip- 
hammers. Toot  sweet  our  guns  began  to  talk 
back.  They  got  us  up  to  the  pits  and  we 
started  to  man  them  crazy-looking  ninety-five- 
millimeter  stove-pipes.  That's  what  the  can- 
non looked  like,  anyway. 

"Shells  was  whizzin'  in  from  every  direc-. 
tion.  High  explosive  cracked  over  our  beans 
and  rained  down  like  hail.  Rat-ta-tat !  Ra-ta- 
tat!  Bang!  Bluey!  Smash!  That  was  all 
we  could  hear  up  and  down  the  lines.  The 
barrages  roared  away  like  barbarian  music. 
Pretty  soon  the  noise  hurt  my  ears  so  till  I 
couldn't  try  to  listen  to  orders.  Just  worked 
away  like  a  mechanical  man. 

"We  started  to  fire  just  as  a  shell  spilled 
its  load  near  the  first  piece.  God !  the  screech 
of  them  three  boys  that  got  all  torn  up  was 
enough  to  tear  a  man's  ear-drums  to  shreds — 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

couldn't  help  but  hear  'em  even  with  the 
bangin'  of  the  guns. 

"All  of  us  was  too  busy  rammin'  shells 
in  our  piece  and  firin'  the  thing  to  notice  much 
that  was  goin'  on,  but  the  flames  from  the 
burstin'  shells  and  the  flares  made  it  almost 
as  bright  as  day  ever  gets  to  be  in  this  coun- 
try. The  yellow  light  was  kinda  blindin'  as 
it  came  in  spurts  and  jerks.  I  looked  ahead 
of  us,  down  toward  the  trenches  and  No 
Man's  Land.  The  Boche  infantry  was  com- 
ing straight  at  us  with  fixed  bayonets.  I  ain't 
jokin'  you,  boy,  but  there  was  some  kind  of  a 
cold  thing  chasin'  up  and  down  my  old  spine 
for  a  few  minutes.  I  could  almost  see  our 
doughboys  strainin'  down  in  their  trenches 
waitin'  to  get  up  and  at  'em. 

"At  last  they  let  'em  go  to  it.  It  was 
some  smash-up  when  they  hit  them  Germans. 
The  Bodies  was  at  least  five  to  one  stronger 
than  us  and  their  weight  counted  enough  to 
make  us  fall  back  to  the  streets  of  Seicheprey. 

"I  speak  of  streets  and  Seicheprey  as  if 
it  might  have  been  a  regular  village.  But 
it  wasn't.  Seicheprey  was  just  like  a  village 
ghost.  Not  a  house  standin'  up — everythin* 
littered  about.  Stones,  bricks,  wood  heaps, 
rubbish,  barbed-wire  entanglements  were  in 
87 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

the  streets  and  every  place.  The  fightin' 
down  there  was  all  hand  to  hand. 

"We  had  been  told  to  fall  back  with  the 
infantry  in  case  it  was  necessary  to  let  the 
Boches  come  on  so  that  our  reinforcements 
could  get  up  and  give  us  a  hand.  But  Lieu- 
tenant Davis,  who  was  runnin'  our  battery, 
was  off  that  fallin'-back  stuff.  He  says, 
' Stick  to  it,  boys,  and  give  'em  hell!'  We 
stuck  all  right,  but  it  was  hot  stickin'. 

"There  was  one  boy  only  about  eighteen 
years  old  in  our  crew,  and  when  Johnson  got 
his  arm  ripped  off  by  shrapnel  and  it  flew  off 
and  hit  Jackson,  the  kid,  he  got  up  from  the 
blow  a  wild  man.  That's  one  of  the  worst 
things  I've  seen  in  this  guerre. 

"Jackson's  face  was  drippin'  blood  and  he 
was  swingin'  Johnson's  arm  around  to  hit  the 
boys  that  was  tryin'  to  get  him  out  of  the 
pit.  It's  damn  hard  to  work  with  a  madman 
next  to  you  cursing  and  prayin'  in  the  same 
breath.  Finally  they  cornered  him  and  car- 
ried him  out.  Johnson  was  stone  dead,  o' 
course,  and  they  had  to  get  him  out,  as  we  was 
steppin'  all  over  him  and  trippin'  up.  Ser- 
geant Broadhead  and  Shorty  Williams  picked 
poor  Johnson  up  and  was  gettin'  back  toward 
a  dug-out,  when  high  explosive  got  'em  both — 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

scooped  Broadhead's  stomach  right  off  him 
and  gashed  the  legs  off  of  Shorty.  Course 
we  heard  'em  groanin'  as  the  noise  of  the 
battle  would  go  up  and  down  just  like  a  piece 
of  music.  But  they  quit  sufferin'  soon,  as 
both  the  lads  went  west  toot  sweet. 

"All  liaison  with  the  other  outfits  was  shot 
to  hell,  and  we  could  only  guess  at  what  was 
goin'  on  with  the  doughboys  and  batteries. 
From  the  rifle  and  machine-gun  firm'  and  the 
shoutin'  and  cursin',  too — for  there  was  beau- 
coup  of  that,  and  it  sounded  worse  than  the 
barrages,  I  judged  that  there  must  be  some 
awful  battlin'  down  in  topsy-turvy  Seiche- 
prey.  Accordin'  to  doughboys  that  I  saw 
later,  the  Boches  got  mashed  up  all  over  that 
place. 

"You  see,  when  the  scrappin'  started  down 
in  Seicheprey  it  wasn't  in  formation.  Every- 
body was  by  himself — or  almost  that  way. 
That  made  it  rotten  for  the  Boches,  as  they 
ain't  got  any  guts  once  they're  alone.  So 
the  doughboys  whaled  'em  for  a  bunch  of 
ghouls.  Tell  me  they  stripped  right  down 
from  helmets  on  and  started  in  bare  fist  or 
with  bayonets. 

"The  Boches  got  some  Mud  of  a  signal 
back  to  their  batteries  to  throw  over  gas,  and 


WHAT  OUjFlT,  BUDDY? 

all  of  a  sudden  it  looked  as  if  the  night  had 
gone  green.  Green  is  the  gas  warnin',  you 
know. 

"'Gas!  Gas!'  You  could  hear  that  cry 
everywhere  when  the  noise  of  the  battle  would 
let  you.  We  stopped  workin'  our  piece  long 
enough  to  jerk  gas-masks  on.  I  swear  but 
we  looked  like  a  bunch  of  devils  with  them 
things  on,  'specially  when  the  flames  would 
shoot  up  around  us. 

"Our  gang  was  gettin'  it  pretty  hot  'round 
the  gun-pits  and  there  was  so  many  of  the 
fellows  wounded  and  lyin'  out  beyond  the  pits 
that  the  Sanitary  guys  couldn't  drag  'em  in 
fast  enough.  Most  of  these  wounded  had 
been  on  the  ammunition  details  and  were  hit 
on  the  way  to  the  guns  with  shells.  Every 
forty-five  minutes  a  few  of  us  would  get  re- 
lieved and  crawl  into  the  dug-out  for  a  min- 
ute's rest.  The  Sanitary  men  asked  for  vol- 
unteers to  help  'em  get  the  wounded  in. 
Every  man  who  was  on  relief  at  that  minute 
jumped  up  and  went  out  to  bring  the  boys  in. 
That's  the  kind  of  spirit  they  had. 

"A  chap  by  the  name  of  Wilson  from 
F  Battery  had  gone  out  to  bring  in  some 
other  lad  and  he  got  both  of  his  own  legs 
blown  off.  My  old  pal,  Frank  Gordon,  heard 

90 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

Wilson  moanin'    out   there   and  he   ran   out 
to  get  him. 

"I'll  never  forget  what  happened  just  as 
Frank  got  on  top  of  the  little  trench  that 
ran  'round  our  gun.  He  had  Wilson's  leg- 
less body  slung  over  his  back.  Shrapnel 
screamed  like  a  hell-cat  and  good  old  Gor- 
don's left  arm  and  part  of  his  head  were 
jerked  right  out  of  socket  and  went  flyin' 
over  our  heads.  Gordon  and  Wilson  toppled 
out  of  sight.  I  saw  it  all  and  couldn't  stop 
myself.  I  jumped  the  trench,  grabbed  the 
first  moanin'  body  I  come  to.  Couldn't  see 
'em  as  there  wasn't  so  much  flares  goin',  and 
ran  for  the  dug-out  that  they  was  usin'  as 
a  first-aid  station.  I  found  out  that  I  had 
brought  Eay  Mason  in." 


VIII 


"HnHAT   dug-out   was    sure   one   hell-hole. 

Jl  See  we  had  been  gettin'  gas  right 
along  and  it  poured  in  the  dug-out,  as  they 
had  to  keep  openin'  the  door  to  let  'em  in 
with  wounded.  There  was  nine  fellows, 
naked  and  smeared  all  up  with  iodine  and 
blood,  stretched  out  on  bunks.  Most  of  'em 
were  so  torn  up  and  badly  hurt  that  their 
wounds  had  made  'em  numb.  Consequently 
they  were  darn  quiet — except  one  little  Greek 
boy.  He  was  alive  to  pain  all  right.  Both 
his  eyes  were  hangin'  to  strings  of  flesh  and 
his  body  was  like  an  old  flour-sieve.  He 
couldn't  keep  from  moanin',  and  I'll  be 
damned  if  I  could  keep  from  listenin'  to  him. 

"The  first  thing  a  wounded  man  generally 
does  is  to  jerk  his  mask  off,  if  he's  got  one 
on.  That's  what  the  boys  were  doin'  in  the 
dug-out.  You  had  to  battle  with  some  of  'em 
to  keep  the  things  on.  Those  that  did  get 
the  masks  off  got  sick  and  vomited  all  over, 

92 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

Gosh,  0.  D.,  it  was  kinda  bad  down  there. 
The  big  thing  that  appealed  to  me  was  how 
all  the  guys  acted.  Those  that  wasn't 
wounded  worked  along  pretty  cool  and  didn't 
show  much  signs  of  breakin'.  The  wounded 
showed  a  lot  of  guts  the  way  they  kept  still 
and  didn't  let  the  old  hurts  get  the  best 
of  'em. 

"While  I  was  down  there  givin'  'em  a 
hand  a  doughboy  that  had  been  captured 
crawled  into  the  dug-out  with  his  tongue  cut 
out.  The  Boches  did  that  to  scare  us,  and 
they  drove  him  back  into  our  lines  with  a 
bayonet.  Hines,  one  of  the  gun  crew,  went 
crazy,  he  got  so  mad  when  he  heard  that,  and 
tore  out  of  the  place  for  Seicheprey,  where 
he  got  fightin'  hand  to  hand  with  the  Germans. 

"I  went  back  to  the  gun  and  was  fixin'  to 
try  and  get  Frank  when  Lieutenant  Davis 
gave  us  orders  to  fire  again,  and  said  there 
was  no  use  tryin'  to  bring  him  in,  as  he  was 
dead. 

"The  ammunition  was  comin'  mighty  slow 
and  when  a  man  came  in  with  a  shell  I  told 
him  to  make  it  snappy  and  get  'em  comin' 
faster.  He  said,  'All  right,  Jimmy.'  I  looked 
at  him  hard,  and  be  damned  if  it  wasn't 
Father  Farrell,  our  chaplain.  Say,  that  was 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

one  brave  little  guy.  He  ain't  any  bigger 
than  a  small  kid,  but  he  was  luggin'  shells  for 
a  long  time  before  he  let  anybody  know  it 
was  him. 

"Course,  every  time  one  o'  the  boys  would 
get  it  he  would  run  to  him  toot  sweet  and  do 
what  he  could — brought  the  wounded  in  and 
buried  the  dead  right  under  the  hardest  kind 
of  a  fire.  Father  Farrell  got  nicked  in  the 
arm  with  a  shell  splinter  on  his  way  back  to 
the  rear  the  next  day.  So  did  I.  On  recom- 
mendation of  our  general  the  French  gave 
him  a  Craw  de  Guerre.  I  never  could  say 
that  thing  right,  but  it's  a  War  Cross  for 
pullin'  hero  stuff. 

"I  saw  how  hard  the  chaplain  was  workin' 
and  I  knew  my  job  on  the  crew  wasn't  so 
heavy,  so  he  took  my  place  and  I  carted  ammu- 
nition a  while.  Just  when  we  thought  that 
the  thing  was  fineed  a  Boche  plane  came 
swoopin'  down  on  us  and  opened  up  a 
machine-gun  barrage.  I'll  say  that  the  Bodies 
had  pretty  good  guts,  but  no  more  than  Carl 
Davis  had,  the  'loot'  that  was  our  C.  0. 
Davis  grabbed  a  rifle  from  one  of  the  gang 
and  ran  right  after  that  Boche,  pepperin' 
away  at  him  like  he  was  shootin*  at  a  fleck  of 
blackbirds.  It  was  still  darker  than  hell  and 

94 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

all  that  we  could  see  of  the  Boche  plau« 
was  black  outlines,  just  as  if  some  big  hawk 
was  flappin'  its  wings  right  over  our  heads. 
Gee!  it  was  uncanny  and  sort  of  ghostlike. 
Davis  was  runnin'  up  and  down  like  a  man 
in  a  relay  race  all  by  himself.  He  didn't 
have  nothin'  on  except  an  undershirt,  pants, 
and  boots.  We  all  laughed  at  him  and  that 
helped  a  lot  to  get  our  minds  off  our  trou- 
bles. Finally  the  Boche  whirred  away  and 
Lieutenant  Davis  put  the  old  rifle  up.  Poor 
Davis,  he  was  some  fightin'  kid.  They  got 
him  up  at  Chateau-Thierry.  But  that  comes 
later. 

"The  battlin'  was  wearin'  down  to  a 
small  noise.  Most  of  the  Boches  had  all 
they  could  stand.  They  began  tryin'  to  get 
back  to  their  lines,  and  our  batteries  cut 
'em  up  like  a  lawn-mower  gets  the  grass. 
Their  artillery  had  shut  up  except  those  few 
guns  that  was  firm'  at  ambulances  and 
wounded  parties.  You  see,  our  ambulances 
had  to  come  up  over  a  road  that  was  pickin' 
and  when  they  started  'round  Dead  Man's 
Curve — Bluey!  Bang! — the  Boches  would 
smash  'em,  wounded  and  all,  into  pieces.  We 
had  to  keep  our  wounded  down  in  that  dug- 
out about  six  hours  waitin'  to  evacuate  'em 

7  95 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

on  that  account.  The  little  Greek  boy  I  was 
tellin'  you  about  died  before  they  got  him 
away. 

"Exceptin'  for  a  few  guns  goin',  now  and 
then,  the  place  was  quiet  'round  five-thirty. 
So  quiet  you  could  hear  the  wounded  moanin' 
mighty  easy,  and  now  and  then  a  thud  was 
heard  when  barbed  wire  supportin'  a  dead 
man  would  snap  and  let  the  body  hit  the 
ground. 

"The  early  mornin'  was  as  gray  as  ciga- 
rette ashes,  but  it  was  plenty  light  enough 
to  see  what  was  'round  us.  I  wished  it  had 
been  a  blame  sight  darker.  I  couldn't  look  at 
poor  old  Frank  Gordon  to  save  my  life.  He 
was  lyin'  right  outside  the  trench — face  turned 
toward  the  dug-out,  mouth  wide  open  and  all 
blue  and  bloated  like.  The  only  arm  he  had 
was  pointin'  to  the  sky  just  like  an  arrow. 
He  was  almost  straddlin*  Wilson's  trunk. 

"But  Gordon  and  Wilson  was  just  two  of 
many.  There  was  beaucoup  more  of  our  boys 
and  officers  lyin'  'round  in  stiff  heaps,  all 
broken  and  twisted  up.  Down  'round  the  first- 
line  infantry  trenches  it  was  as  grim  lookin' 
as  an  opened-up  graveyard.  There  was  beau- 
coup  Germans  piled  up  on  the  ground  and 
hangin'  on  wire  entanglements.  All  mostly 

96 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

dead — some  just  dyin'.  I  saw  a  few  Ameri- 
cans scattered  in  and  out  between  'em,  too. 

"  Father  Farrell  came  along  and  asked  some 
of  us  to  give  him  a  hand  to  put  the  boys 
away.  I  was  one  of  the  gang  that  started  the 
buryin'  stuff,  but  when  I  came  to  Frank  Gor- 
don—  Honest  to  God,  0.  D.,  I  couldn't  touch 
him.  Sounds  foolish  to  say  that — don't  it? 
I  swear  it's  a  fact.  Guess  I  didn't  have  the 
guts. 

"I  says,  l Father,  you'll  have  to  get  some- 
body else  on  this  detail  in  my  place.  I  can't 
touch  Gordon.'  I  used  to  sleep  with  that 
boy  and  listen  to  him  tell  me  'bout  his  girl, 
a  colleen  that  was  waitin'  for  him  to  come 
back  to  the  old  country — Gordon  was  born  in 
Ireland,  you  see.  Father  Farrell  understood, 
I  guess,  'cause  he  says,  'Here,  you  take  his 
identification  tag,  this  ring  and  pocketbook, 
and  keep  it;  they're  his  effects.  Then  you 
beat  it  to  the  dug-out.'  I  grabbed  them  things 
and  run  like  hell.  I  was  kinda  feelin'  funny 
in  the  gills.  First  and  last  time  it's  hit  me 
that  way,  though. 

"We  got  relieved  that  night  and  were  sent 
back  to  the  echelon  for  a  rest  and  somethin* 
to  eat.  We'd  been  monjayin*  the  old  iron 
rations  for  almost  a  week  straight. 

97 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

"It  wouldn't  have  been  nothin'  more  than 
half  natural  for  us  to  mope  'round  after 
such  excitement  and  think  'bout  it  or  talk  a 
hell  of  a  lot.  But  I  never  saw  much  of  that 
stuff — not  durin'  the  whole  time  we've  been 
in  the  guerre.  Day  after  we  got  back  we  got 
an  old  madame  to  cook  up  a  big  feed  for  some 
of  us  that  was  on  the  gun  crew.  Had  a  hot 
bath  before  monjayin',  and  maybe  I  didn't  feel 
like  a  regular  guy! 

"All  the  fellows  was  cleaned  up,  and  you'd 
have  never  known  that  they  had  been  battlin'. 
Course  everybody  missed  old  Gordon.  He 
could  tell  the  funniest  stories  I  ever  listened 
to  and  play  and  sing  stuff  in  a  way  that 
would  have  set  Broadway  nuts.  Somebody 
got  up  and  said  a  toast  to  him,  and  we  drank 
champagne  to  his  memory.  There  wasn't  no 
crape-hangers  at  the  party.  Course  we  was 
mighty  sorry  for  the  boys  that  had  passed 
out.  But  we  still  had  to  fight  the  guerre  for 
ourselves,  and  if  there's  any  way  the 
guerre  can  lick  you  it's  by  getting  your  goat 
over  things  that's  happened  to  you  or  your 
pals.  You  got  to  forget  it,  0.  D.  Got  to  be 
a  hard  guy  as  much  as  you  can. 

"I  heard  lots  about  the  stuff  called  philoso- 
phy of  soldiers  and  all  that  bosh  before  I  got 
98 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

over  here — if  it's  philosophy  that  they've  got 
or  actin',  I  don't  believe  the  boys  know  it 
themselves.  Anyhow  they  call  it  that  in  books 
and  magazines.  I  used  to  throw  that  kind  of 
line  back  yonder,  years  ago — so  it  seems.  But 
I'm  finee  now.  You  got  to  hand  me  nails 
when  I  ask  for  nails  to-day.  Brass-headed 
tacks  won't  do,  0.  D. 

"But  to  get  back  to  the  philosophy  stuff. 
In  this  guerre  you  got  to  tell  yourself  that 
there  ain't  no  shells  or  bullets  with  your 
name  on  'em,  watch  your  step  on  the  gas  stuff 
and  you  ain't  got  much  to  say  about  whether 
a  bomb  is  goin'  to  get  you  or  not.  So  quit 
worryin'  'bout  'em  till  you  get  in  a  raid. 
Makes  no  difference  how  close  they  come  or 
how  many  they  get  right  next  to  you.  That's 
just  proof  that  nothin'  ain't  labeled  for  you. 
Get  me  on  that?  All  right,  next.  One  of 
the  first  damn  things  in  French  I'm  goin'  to 
learn  you  is  to  say,  'Say  la  guerre/  Means, 
'It's  the  war.'  When  you  get  to  sayin*  that 
till  you  believe  it  then  you  got  the  old  war 
licked  a  hundred  ways.  That's  my  way  of 
lookin*  at  this  stuff.  Call  it  philosophy  if 
you  want  to.  But  old  Zeke  Doolittle  looks  at 
it  the  same  way  and  he  couldn't  know  a  philos- 
ophy book  from  a  monocle. 

99 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

"I  ate  so  much  at  that  party  had  to  see 
the  doctor  next  day.  Had  a  bellyache  that 
worried  me  more  than  the  battle  of  Seiche- 
prey.  Doc  tried  to  shoot  some  bull  'bout  my 
havin'  got  gassed — then  he  painted  my  stom- 
ach with  iodine  and  gave  me  a  pill — same  old 
stuff/' 


IX 


THE  OLD  VAN  SEEZEUM  ON  ITS  WAY7' 

"  A  FTER  the  scrap  'round  Seicheprey  we 
XX  didn't  encore  the  battle  much  except 
when  the  Battle  of  Boucq  started.  That  was 
one  hell  of  a  curious  battle.  The  Boches  got 
mad  and  began  heavin'  shells  'way  back  in 
the  rears.  Boucq  wasn't  too  far  away  to  be 
in  it. 

" That's  where  all  our  headquarters  was 
located — regimental,  brigade,  division,  and  the 
whole  damn  shootin '-match.  At  that  time 
Mudgy  Jones,  also  known  as  Chisel-Face  or 
Whistlin'  Jaws,  was  colonel  of  our  regiment. 
Let  me  tell  you  right  now  our  regiment  had  a 
hell  of  a  time  gettin'  where  it  was,  handi- 
capped as  we  were  with  that  man  as  a  C.  0. 
All  he  could  do  was  walk  'round  whistlin' 
somethin'  that  didn't  have  no  tune  at  all  and 
find  fault.  Well,  just  to  show  you  what  kind 
of  a  gink  Mudgy  was,  when  the  stuff  started 
comin'  and  breakin'  near  regimental  P.  C.  he 
dives  down  into  a  cellar  and  loses  himself. 

101 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

The  general  comes  over  to  give  him  hell  'bout 
something  and  he  couldn't  be  found.  Finally 
some  guy  bribed  Jones'  orderly  to  tell  where 
he  was.  Mudgy  didn't  pull  any  whistle  stuff 
when  the  old  gen.  hauled  him  up. 

"The  battle  of  Boucq  lasted  'bout  four 
days,  durin'  which  the  One  Hundred  and 
Fourth  Infantry — hardest  bunch  of  doughboys 
in  this  man's  army — got  lined  up  on  a  hill 
by  some  French  general  and  handed  the  Craw 
de  Guerre  for  the  whole  damn  outfit.  Only 
outfit  in  the  A.  E.  F.  that  can  wear  that  thing 
as  a  regiment,  too. 

"We  had  a  gang  fight  down  'round  Xivray 
that  lasted  a  day  or  so  and  made  us  lose  quite 
a  number  of  the  fellows.  Then  we  got  pulled 
out  of  the  Toul  lines  and  loaded  on  another 
bunch  of  foolish-lookin'  trains.  When  we 
was  loadin' — that  was  'bout  the  last  day  of 
June  or  nearbouts — they  handed  out  some 
wild  rumor  stuff  'bout  us  goin*  to  parade 
in  Paree  on  the  Fourth.  All  the  soldats 
believed  it  and  a  hell  of  a  lot  of  second  looeys 
— even  the  C.  0.  By  the  way,  Davis  that 
was  with  us  at  Seicheprey  had  been  made  a 
captain  and  put  in  charge  of  our  outfit. 

"The  train  started  toward  Paree  and  made 
'bout  three  hundred  kilos  in  that  direction. 
102 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

All  along  the  tracks  and  in  the  big  towns 
we  passed  through  there  was  gangs  of  girls 
and  school-kids  shoutin'  at  us.  Thrown*' 
kisses  and  askin'  for  bisques — them's  biscuits 
in  anglay.  We  fired  all  the  hardtack  we  had 
to  'em,  as  usual. 

"That  was  the  time  we  learned  how  to  call 
ourselves  in  fransay.  I  kept  hearin'  the 
French  kids  savin'  somethin'  that  sounded  like 
'Van  Seezeutn'  and  wondered  what  the  hell  it 
meant.  A  French  Canuck  up  and  says, 
'That's  the  way  they  say  Twenty-sixth  in 
Frog.'  They  was  glad,  he  says,  because  the 
old  Van  Seezeum  was  on  its  way.  Then  I 
began  gettin'  it.  The  kids  knew  who  we  was 
somehow.  Some  of  'em  hollered,  'Caput 
Boches  at  Seicheprey. '  Gosh !  there  must  have 
been  somethin'  in  the  papers  'bout  us,  the 
way  they  was  talkin'  it  off. 

"  Eight  when  we  got  close  enough  to  smell 
Paree — and  Otto  Page  began  swearin'  that 
he  could  see  the  Eifel  Tower — the  trains  got 
switched  off  to  the  right  and  started  hell  bent 
for  election  toward  Chateau-Thierry.  Noisy- 
le-Sec  was  where  we  got  switched  off,  and 
that's  where  the  cussin'  started  and  it  lasted 
until  we  got  in  the  old  guerre  again  up  'round 
Saacy  and  Citry. 

103 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

"Damn,  but  we  was  sore — been  thinkin* 
'bout  that  promised  rest  and  paradin'  up  and 
down  Paree,  you  know,  and  we  felt  that  they 
was  rubbin'  it  in,  that's  all.  They  just  hated 
to  think  that  some  guy  was  rubbin '  it  in.  We 
was  National  Guard  Boy  Scouts,  some  of  'em 
called  us  before  the  guerre.  But  they  can 
take  their  funny  names  plumb  to  hell  to-day. 
Like  to  know  where  this  man's  army  would 
be  if  it  wasn't  for  the  National  Guard. 

"Jerked  us  out  of  sleep  'bout  midnight  and 
unloaded  the  works  at  a  joint  called  La 
Ferte — hiked  thirteen  kilofloppers  to  a  town 
that  I  couldn't  call  out  loud  if  I  wanted  to. 
Have  to  think  it  when  I  want  to  remember 
anythin'  'bout  the  place.  They  put  us  up 
in  a  big  park.  Spent  the  Fourth  there.  The 
villagers  hung  out  beaucoup  flags,  but  I 
couldn't  recognize  'em,  though  a  Frenchman 
pointed  to  some  and  said,  ' Americain.'  Had  a 
party  on  the  Fourth.  Beaucoup  van  rouge. 
Some  old  champagne — and  a  poulet.  Forgot 
to  tell  you  'bout  poulet s — they're  chickens — 
the  eatin*  kind,  you  savvy P 

"Next  day  we  got  orders  to  haul  it  up  to 
the  front  or  pretty  near  it.  We  blew  into  a 
big  chateau  grounds  'round  early  mornin' — 
everybody  was  so  darn  tired  they  cushayed 

104 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

right  off  the  bat  without  camouflaging  the 
stuff.  A  nuisance  by  name  of  Boots  Jen- 
kins, who  had  been  made  a  second  looey 
when  even  corporals  was  hard  to  get,  was 
the  Officer  of  the  Day.  He  didn't  come  to 
until  broad  daylight  and  a  bunch  of  Boche 
planes  got  hummin'  overhead.  Boots  tried  to 
turn  out  the  guard — and  found  out  that  he 
had  forgot  to  put  a  guard  on  at  all.  'Some 
guy  he  was.'  Then  he  started  wakin'  every- 
body up.  'Get  up,  every  mother's  son  of 
you,  move  this  picket-line  and  camouflage  the 
wagons.  Come  on,  shake  it  up,'  and  he  pulled 
the  blankets  off  George  Woods.  'Git  the  hell 
out  o'  here — I'm  cushayin','  bawled  Woods. 
'Don't  give  a  damn,  get  up,*  commanded  Jen- 
kins. 'Ah,  take  a  flop  for  yourself,  I  don't 
belong  to  your  gang.  I'm  a  naval  gunner 
on  special  duty.'  That's  what  Boots  got  on 
every  side. 

"After  a  long  time  he  got  the  stable  ser- 
geant— some  draggin'  kitchen  police  and  old 
Bill  Conway — wonderful  crew  for  a  detail. 
They  moved  every  damn  cheval  we  had  and 
threw  bushes  over  the  guns  and  wagons.  The 
rest  of  us  had  dragged  our  blankets  and  stuff 
up  to  the  top  of  a  hill  and  cusTiayed  right  on. 

"The  outfits  hid  in  that  big  woods  until  it 

105 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

got  time  for  us  to  cross  the  Marne  and  relieve 
the  Second  Division.  This  happened  'bout 
July  eleventh  or  so.  We  was  all  set  for  any 
trick  that  the  Boches  might  be  willin'  to  try. 

11  There  had  been  beaucoup  bull  flyin'  'round 
that  Germany  was  makin'  a  last  big  drive  for 
old  Paree  and  most  likely  they'd  try  to  cut 
through  us  'round  the  Chateau-Thierry  sec- 
tor— that  stuff  was  pretty  well  soaked  into  us 
and  guess  the  gang  wanted  to  show  the 
marines  that  two  weeks  in  Belleau  Woods 
wasn't  such  big  stuff  after  all,  considerin'  the 
way  they  jumped  into  the  battlin*  when  it 
started.  Course  I  ain't  disputin'  that  the 
marines  didn't  pull  off  good  stunts  down 
there.  But  you  got  to  remember  we'd  been  in 
the  lines  damn  near  six  months  when  the  noise 
started  at  Chateau-Thierry." 


CHATEAU-THIEBEY 

««  T  ULY  fifteenth  started  off  with  a  good 
J  bang. 

1  'The  Bodies  began  drivin'  from  Rheims  to 
where  we  were.  The  good  old  Rainbow  boys 
from  the  Forty-second  Division  was  near 
Rbeims,  so  we  didn't  worry  much  'bout  the 
Bodies  breakin'  through  on  the  right  flank. 
When  the  drive  started  toward  us  through 
Chateau-Thierry  the  Boches  laid  their  last 
egg,  I'm  thinking.  They  gained  a  few  yards 
the  first  day.  Slowed  right  up  the  second. 
On  the  third  we  stopped  'em  dead  still  in  their 
tracks. 

"The  big  thing  happened  before  we  had 
time  to  know  it  was  comin'  off.  Some  bird — 
Foch  most  likely — pushed  a  button  and  the 
whole  damn  French  and  American  lines 
jumped  up  and  busted  the  Boches  right  on  the 
nose  and  in  the  eyes. 

"Say,  0.  D.,  we  better  cusliay  before  I  get 
in'  'bout  them  mad  days  from  Torcy  up 

107 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

to  Sergy  Plateau.  I  could  keep  you  awake 
all  night  listenin'  to  that  Chateau-Thierry 
stuff,"  said  Jimmy.  His  blue  eyes  were 
shooting  fire  and  his  face  showed  the  excite- 
ment that  just  the  mention  of  Chateau-Thierry 
caused. 

"If  you  stop  now,  Jimmy,  I  won't  ask  Mary 
to  write  to  you,"  warned  O.  D. 

"You  win,  toot  sweet/'  answered  McGee, 
quickly. 

"Encore,  then.  If  that's  the  way  you  say 
it  in  French,"  begged 'the  brother  of  Mary. 

"My  outfit  was  stuck  up  on  the  top  of  a 
little  ant-hill  with  the  old  howitzers  pointed 
slam-bang  at  the  Germans  who  was  on  a 
small  mountain  right  across  the  way,  when 
our  drive  got  under  way.  The  Yankee 
doughboys  was  down  on  the  side  of  the  ant- 
hill, hangin'  on  the  roots  and  different  kind  of 
bushes  to  keep  from  slidin'  down  to  the  bot- 
tom and  boggin'  up  to  their  necks  in  mud. 
The  Boches  had  all  the  high  places. 

"The  doughboys  started  over.  We  had  to 
grab  a  place  called  Torcy.  Now  you  must 
remember  that  country  had  seen  beaucoup 
battlin'  and  was  all  shot  up — so  much  so  it 
was  mighty  hard  traveling.  There  was  so 
much  rubbish  and  ruins.  All  that  was  left 

108 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

of  some  towns  was  names.  As  I  said,  the 
infantry  jumped  at  'em.  The  Boches  was 
sure  caught  nappin' — didn't  have  an  idea  that 
we  would  come  back  so  quick  and  hard.  Toot 
sweet  they  began  givin'  us  hell  with  their 
damn  machine-guns.  Course  that  was  while 
they  was  makin'  a  stab  at  gettin'  their  yellow 
doughboys  over  the  big  scare  that  we  threw 
into  'em.  But  our  boys  had  got  such  a  start 
that  machine-gun  fire,  even  as  hellish  as  what 
they  pumped  into  us,  couldn't  stop  'em.  They 
was  out  for  the  Kaiser's  scalp. 

"We  took  Torcy  on  the  short  end  of 
bayonets  and  barrage.  The  old  artillery 
banged  the  Boches  into  a  lot  of  sausage  meat. 
The  bodies  used  to  trip  us  up,  and  how  some 
of  the  guys  cussed  them  dead  Germans.  Toot 
sweet  after  we  started  the  drive  a  drove  of 
prisoners  began  comin'  in — privates,  non- 
coms.,  loots,  majors,  and  even  colonels.  We 
called  'em  all  Heinie  and  Fritz,  you  know, 
and  some  of  the  Boche  officers  got  mad  as 
the  devil  and  wanted  to  be  treated  as  officers. 
The  Yanks  prodded  'em  with  stiff  bayonets 
when  they  pulled  that  stuff. 

"From  the  first  minute  of  the  drive  there 
was  no  let-up  in  battlin'.  None  of  that  trench- 
line  fightin'.  Open  warfare,  buddy.  Open  as 

109 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

a  doorless  barn,  I  mean.  The  noise  never 
stopped  like  it  did  at  Seicheprey,  a  few  hours 
after  it  started.  No,  0.  D.,  it  was  just  one 
continual  roarin',  bangin',  crashin',  swearin', 
moaning  and  prayin'.  That's  all.  Gosh! 
there  was  so  many  kinds  of  different  things 
that  could  kill  a  man,  goin'  at  the  same  time 
that  it's  a  wonder  anybody  was  left  to  tell 
'bout  the  Second  Battle  of  the  Marne. 

"Time  we  took  Torcy  they  said  to  get  Hill 
190.  Maybe  you  know  that's  right  'bove 
Chateau-Thierry  itself.  You  can  imagine 
that  the  Boches  made  some  stand  to  hang  on 
to  that  place.  They  sure  did.  We  had  beau- 
coup  boys  put  out  of  business  gettin'  up  to 
Hill  190,  believe  me. 

"After  strugglin'  up  the  sides  of  the  hill — 
through  barbed  wire  almost  five  feet  high — 
and  gettin'  a  smashin'  artillery  barrage  shot 
at  us — the  Boches  had  got  their  big  guns  'back 
and  in  position  by  that  time — we  ran  into 
the  worst  machine-gun  fire  that  ever  was.  The 
!dirty  Germans  had  camouflaged  a  few  hun- 
dred machine-guns  in  a  big  wheat-field  on  top 
of  the  hill.  You  couldn't  see  nothin'  but  the 
wheat  wavin*  in  the  breeze  when  we  started 
across  it. 

"Bat-ta-ta-tat!  went  the  machine-guns.  The 
no 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

boys  began  droppin'  like  rain.  Wiped  out 
companies  at  times.  Our  own  machine-gun- 
ners said,  'To  hell  with  waitin'  on  horses  and 
mules.'  They  dragged  their  little  babies  right 
up  to  that  wheat-field  and  gave  the  Bodies 
some  of  their  own  medicine.  Will  you  believe 
me  that  lots  of  the  Boche  gunners  was  found 
chained  to  their  guns?  Yep.  It's  a  fact.  The 
Boche  morale  had  got  so  low  till  they  had  to 
chain  their  men  to  posts. 

"The  old  chepeaux  that  used  to  drag  our 
pieces  'round  was  half  dead,  anyway,  when 
the  drivin'  started,  and  we  had  one  hell  of  a 
time  tryin'  to  keep  up  with  the  doughboys. 
Everybody  had  to  get  on  the  wheels  and  push 
and  cuss  at  the  same  time.  I  tell  you,  man, 
the  damn  clievaux  was  dyin'  in  the  traces. 
We  managed  to  keep  within  range,  but  had  to 
get  some  trucks  to  help  us  move. 

"The  Bodies  was  thrown  so  hard  from  the 
top  of  Hill  190  that  you  could  hear  their  necks 
breakin'  when  they  landed  down  in  the  valley. 
I  never  saw  such  a  gory-looking  hill  in  all 
the  days  of  drivin'.  There  was  men  piled 
waist  high.  Mostly  Germans.  Nobody  had 
time  to  stop  and  bury  dead  people  at  a  time 
like  that.  There  wasn't  time  for  nothin*  but 
fightin*  and  movin'. 
8  ill 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

"Takin'  190  meant  gettin'  into  Chateau- 
Thierry.  "We  found  beaucoup  Boches  down 
there.  They  put  up  a  scrap  because  there  was 
a  pile  of  stuff  in  the  town  that  they  wanted 
to  try  and  save.  Down  in  some  parts  of  the 
joint,  even  after  most  of  the  Germans  had 
started  sprintin'  for  the  Fatherland,  there  was 
some  terrible  battlin*. 

"The  main  rues  and  boulevards  was  all 
chock-ablock  with  breastworks.  They  had 
pianos,  tables,  beds,  big  lookin '-glasses,  sofas, 
bags  stuffed  with  rotten  smellin'  rags  and 
rubbish,  piled  up — well,  Lord  knows  what 
wasn't  used  to  stop  us.  Behind  these  things 
was  the  Boche  machine-guns.  They  was  just 
like  a  bunch  of  hose  and  played  as  wicked  a 
stream  of  lead  as  you  can  think  of.  Ameri- 
cans and  Frogs  both  forced  these  works  and 
fineed  the  machine-gun  fire. 

"After  that  there  ain't  no  way  to  describe 
the  fightin'.  It  got  all  over  the  place.  Like 
scrambled  eggs  in  a  fryin'-pan.  The  Yanks 
used  rifles  for  clubs  and  waded  into  the  Boches 
like  a  bunch  of  good  cops.  Bayonets  and 
trench  dirks  came  in  with  a  noise  like  finee  for 
the  Germans — chased  'em  up  alleyways,  dug 
'em  out  of  cellars,  laid  'em  cold — that's  all 
there  was  to  it. 

112 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

"Long,  black  shadows  were  camouflagin* 
what  was  left  of  Chateau-Thierry  as  we  rum- 
bled through  it.  I  ain't  much  at  tellin'  how 
things  look,  any  more.  But  Chateau-Thierry 
looked  like  a  plowed-up  graveyard  and  then 
some.  The  moonlight  got  turned  on  and  made 
everythin'  seem  ten  times  worse,  as  the  effect 
was  kinda  weird.  Houses  looked  like  a  bunch 
of  crumblin'  skeletons.  Troops  was  movin' 
over  every  street.  Supply-trains  and  ammu- 
nition trucks  rattled  up  and  down.  Ambu- 
lances crawled  by  so  slow  till  we  could  hear 
the  groans  of  the  poor  guys  in  them. 

"Time  we  got  opposite  the  bridge  that  had 
been  knocked  into  the  river  by  American  artil- 
lery we  got  treated  to  a  warm  bombardment. 
Mashed  up  some  of  the  lads  pretty  badly. 
That  bombardment  wasn't  a  trifle  compared 
to  the  smell  that  came  from  unburied  men. 
Whew!  I  hadn't  got  a  chance  to  monjay  all 
day  and  my  belly  was  pretty  weak  'bout  that 
time.  It  sure  was  an  awful  stink. 

"There  was  dead  Americans,  dead  French- 
men, and  heaps  of  stark  Boche  corpses  linin' 
the  route — just  like  so  many  yard  stones. 
Couldn't  help  but  feel  good  when  we  would 
pass  a  big  bunch  of  them  swollen-up  Germans, 
all  blue  in  the  face  from  dyin'  like  they  did. 

113 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

"Our  column  was  halted  in  Chateau- 
Thierry  for  'bout  three  hours.  We  had  to 
wait  for  some  trucks  to  encore  the  drive  with. 
Poor  old  chevaux  were  down  for  the  count. 

"I  had  already  lost  beaucoup  stuff.  Thought 
I'd  hunt  'round  some  of  the  near-by  houses, 
or  what  was  left  of  houses.  Needed  some 
underclothes  pretty  bad.  In  one  place  I  found 
a  closet  full  of  mademoiselle's  underclothes. 
You  know  that  kind  of  stuff  all  full  of  holes 
and  ribbons.  I  was  up  against  it  for  under- 
wear. As  it  was,  I  didn't  have  on  any  draw- 
ers. I  grabbed  two  suits  and  gave  two  to 
George  Neil.  Damn  stuff  nearly  choked  me 
to  death  after  I  got  it  on.  The  girl  who  wore 
it  was  smaller  than  me  in  a  good  many  places. 
Four  days  after  I  got  the  stuff  Neil  and  I 
hit  a  little  stream  and  thought  we'd  try  to 
take  a  bath.  Funny  as  a  crutch,  the  way 
we  looked  gettin'  out  o'  the  mademoiselle's 
riggin's.  Neil  got  one  arm  caught  in  some 
lace  and  got  a  cramp  before  he  could  get 
loose  again. 

"Just  before  daybreak  we  got  orders  to 
move  ahead.  Most  of  the  hikin'  was  right 
down  alongside  the  Marne — river  looked  like 
a  big  red,  open  sewer.  Never  hope  to  see  so 
much  filthy  water  in  my  life  again,  Bodies, 

114 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

wreckage  of  all  kinds,  clothes,  empty  ammu- 
nition cases.  A  hundred  things  else,  I  guess. 
All  floatin'  down  the  stream.  The  tide  washed 
lots  of  bodies  to  shore.  Most  of  them  you 
couldn't  recognize,  as  the  water  and  fishes 
had  eaten  their  faces  and  hands  off.  Only 
way  we  could  tell  what  army  they  belonged  to 
was  by  parts  of  equipment  and  uniforms. 
Water  had  faded  most  of  the  uniforms, 
though. 

"The  woods  and  river  sent  up  an  awful 
smell.  When  we  came  to  a  windin*  road  that 
looked  like  a  brown  snake  crawlin*  up  a  hill 
the  column  turned  up  it  and  pretty  soon  we 
was  in  position  with  the  old  pieces  boomin' 
away  at  the  flyin'  Bodies. 

"Boche  prisoners  was  pourin'  in  like  smoke 
pours  out  of  a  factory  smoke-stack.  Some 
of  'em  tried  to  be  friendly.  There  was  damn 
few  smiles  they  got  from  us,  I  can  tell  you. 
We  were  darn  tired  of  their  ways  of  yellin' 
'Kamerad!'  and  then  throwin'  them  hand 
grenades  at  a  man. 

"The  boys  was  all  full  o'  fun  at  that.  Most 
of  'em  had  got  hold  of  high  hats,  derbies, 
colored  parasols,  and  a  lot  of  other  fool 
things  in  Chateau-Thierry,  and  the  next 
mornin*  they  was  driviri'  along  wearin*  silk 
115 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

hats,  carryin'  green  umbrellas  and  Lord 
knows  what  else.  I  had  a  high  hat  on  myself. 
The  Frenchmen  thought  we  was  nuts  sure 
enough,  goin'  to  war  rigged  up  like  that.  But 
we  told  'em  lSay  la  guerre.'  0.  D.,  the  guys 
in  this  man's  army  ain't  lettin'  no  guerre  get 
their  nannies.  I  guess  most  of  'em  was 
brought  up  just  to  get  in  this  guerre  and  wal- 
lop the  Heinies. 

"  'Bout  twelve  bells  we  started  nrin'.  Just 
in  time  to  let  dinner  get  cold.  Hadn't  put 
over  eight  rounds  before  the  old  coal  barges—- 
that's the  big  shells  that  Fritz  throws  at  us — 
began  sailin'  right  in.  Third  shell  struck  a 
shallow  dug-out  'bout  twenty  feet  from  where 
our  piece  was.  There  was  four  boys  tryin'  to 
cushay  in  that  dug-out.  They  was  all  in  a 
row,  accordin'  to  the  way  I  heard  it.  First 
one  nearest  us  got  smashed  up  'round  the 
lungs.  Olsmo,  second  lad,  got  killed  out- 
right. He  was  mashed  to  pulp  in  places. 
Ripped  the  stomach  out  of  Papan,  next  to 
him,  and  tore  Pap's  knees  clean  out  of  socket. 
The  fourth  guy,  Thayer,  sleepin'  jam  up  to 
Pap,  didn't  get  a  scratch — not  a  thing.  Course 
he  got  all  bloody  from  the  others.  But  that 
wasn't  nothin'. 

"When  we  dug  'em  out  we  found  Silvia, 

116 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

the  first  lad,  dyin'.  He  fineed  toot  sweet.  Just 
a  gasp  or  so  ended  him.  Olsmo,  of  course, 
was  stone  cold — gashed  into  tit-bits  from  head 
to  foot.  0.  D.,  he  was  twisted  inside  out  and 
then  all  ground  up  like  hash.  Them  shells 
can  sure  ruin  a  man.  Poor  Pap,  he  got  it 
worse  than  all.  'Cause  it  didn't  kill  him.  His 
legs  dangled  from  threads  of  flesh.  You 
couldn't  see  his  face  on  account  of  the  blood 
that  spurted  from  his  chest — covered  his  face 
with  red.  Pap  was  in  some  agony,  boy,  but 
he  had  guts.  Looked  like  his  pain  gave  him 
strength.  But  guess  it  was  the  madness  that 
made  him  act  strong  and  not  the  hurtin*.  He 
went  insane  for  a  few  minutes — then  he  would 
quiet  down. 

"  l Olsmo,'  he  shouted,  grittin'  his  teeth 
so  till  it  gave  me  cold  shivers.  Then  he  shook 
cold  Olsmo  with  his  blood-drippin'  hand. 
'Snap  into  it,'  yelled  Pap.  'Christ  Almighty, 
man,  we  can't  stay  here.  It's  killin'  me. 
Move!  Get  that  horse  out  of  my  way.  Can- 
noneers on  the  wheels.'  He  raved  until  he 
got  so  weak  he  just  couldn't  whisper.  The 
way  Pap  stared  at  us  out  of  them  sunken 
eyes  of  his  was  enough  to  scare  a  man  to 
death.  But  when  your  pals  are  dyin',  suf- 
ferin',  cussin',  prayin',  beggin'  for  water  and 

117 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

cigarettes,  a  man  ain't  got  no  business  to  be 
scared,  O.  D.  That's  what  kept  lots  of  us 
goin',  I  suppose.  Pap  wanted  cigarettes.  Had 
to  smoke,  he  said.  Course  we  gave  'em  to  him. 
But  as  fast  as  he  got  one  in  his  mouth  he'd 
throw  it  away  and  holler  for  another. 

"The  shellin'  was  goin'  on  merrily  durin' 
all  that  time.  Our  piece  was  out  of  action,  of 
course,  till  we  got  Pap  in  the  ambulance. 
Heard  later  that  he  didn't  pass  out  for  ten 
hours.  Docs  claim  he  was  the  grittiest  man 
they'd  seen  in  some  time.  Wasn't  time  to 
bury  the  other  lads  then.  We  wrapped  'em  in 
shelter-halves,  dug  holes  and  put  'em  all  in 
the  same  grave  that  night  before  we  pulled  to 
another  place. 

"We  got  orders  to  move  three  kilos  that 
night  and  go  in  another  position.  Hitched  and 
hooked  in  'round  five.  That  gave  us  time 
enough  to  down  some  'corn-willy'  and  black 
coffee.  First  we'd  had  to  monjay  since 
mornin*.  Soon  as  it  was  dark  we  got  out  on 
the  main  road  and  started.  That  road  was 
just  like  Broadway  with  traffic.  Only  they 
don't  have  so  many  ambulances  goin'  up  and 
down  Broadway.  It  was  all  a  man  could  do 
to  skin  himself  and  horse,  or  whatever  his 
cheval  was  hooked  on  to,  by  the  stuff  that 
118 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

was  floodin'  down  from  the  first  lines.  There 
wasn't  no  trenches  in  that  war.  Just  lines, 
and  half  the  time  we  didn't  know  just  where 
in  hell  the  first  lines  was,  'cause  after  them 
doughboys  would  make  three  or  four  kilo- 
meters they  would  be  scattered  all  over  crea- 
tion. 

"Column  halted  near  a  little  village  that 
was  all  knocked  into  a  cocked  hat.  There  was 
a  few  thousand  replacements  waitin'  to  go 
in.  All  infantry.  On  one  side  of  the  road 
was  a  battery  of  155  longs.  Them  things 
make  a  noise  like  a  mine  explosion  and  raise 
a  man  off  his  feet  when  they  go  off.  The 
horses  got  scared,  naturally,  and  part  of  the 
column  got  smeared  all  over  the  road. 

"Just  'bout  that  time  General  Edwards 
comes  bowlin'  along  in  his  big  limousine.  He 
was  ridin*  on  the  seat  with  the  driver.  The 
back  of  the  machine  was  full  of  sandwiches. 
Course  he  couldn't  get  by  on  account  of  the 
jam-up.  Boy,  he  climbed  down  and  got  hold 
of  a  first  loot  who  was  in  the  command  of 
the  outfit  whose  horses  was  raisin*  all  the 
hell.  Gosh!  you  ought  to  heard  him  give  that 
gink  a  bawlin'-out. 

"  'Git  this  stuff  out  of  my  way!    Damn 
quick    too!     Look   in    that    car.     Look!'    he 

119 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

yelled;  honest  lie  was  cryin'.  'See  what's 
there,  don't  you?  Somethin'  to  eat  for  my 
boys.  Yes,  the  doughboys.  Now  move.'  0.  D. 
that  first  loot  got  on  a  caisson  wheel  and 
strained  himself  enough  to  get  a  discharge 
from  the  army.  They  got  the  stuff  out  of 
the  way  toot  sweet. 

"General  Edwards  hadn't  no  more  than  got 
started  when  the  old  shells,  whizz-bangs,  blew 
in  town  with  an  awful  noise.  Gas  came  over, 
too.  There  was  gas  alarms  goin'  enough  to 
wake  New  York  City  out  of  a  Sunday-mornin' 
sleep.  Then  those  cussed  Boche  planes  began 
dronin'  over  our  heads.  Ever  heard  a  bomb 
explode?  No?  Well,  you're  just  as  well  off. 
They're  pas  bon  stuff,  0.  D. 

"The  Boches  sure  must  have  known  that  we 
was  right  down-stairs  under  'em,  'cause  they 
started  pullin'  up  the  old  tailboards  and  drop- 
pin'  'em  every  damn  minute.  Bombs,  bombs, 
and  more  bombs.  They  dropped  right  in  the 
column,  knocked  ruined  houses  into  our  ears, 
filled  your  eyes  with  dirt.  Some  horses,  'bout 
ten,  got  hurt  so  bad  we  had  to  shoot  'em. 
Think  'bout  three  men  got  killed  while  the 
jam  lasted,  but  ain't  quite  sure. 

"We  moved  after  a  while,  and  the  planes 
followed  us  up.  Got  to  the  fork  of  some  roads 
120 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

and  took  the  one  leadin'  right  down  to  the 
Marne.  That  was  just  below  Mont  St.  Pierre, 
a  little  village.  There  was  a  pontoon  bridge, 
one  of  them  boat  things,  you  know — right  near 
where  we  halted  for  the  night.  You  can 
imagine  how  the  Germans  was  tryin'  to  pot- 
shot that  bridge.  The  town  was  all  marbles 
from  shells  hittin'  it  that  was  aimed  at  the 
bridge. 

"Time  we  halted  a  big  boy  banged  in.  Hit 
in  the  woods  where  we  was  to  camp  for  the 
night.  Bon  welcome,  eh?  Stink?  Whew! 
Those  woods  did  reek — had  to  bury  our  noses 
in  the  ground  to  get  to  sleep.  Well,  the  gas 
came  over  strong.  The  Heinies  threw  bombs 
down  as  regular  as  Christy  Mathewson  used 
to  heave  strikes  across  the  plate — and  every- 
body was  scared  as  hell. 

"Don't  let  any  man  ever  tell  you  he  don't 
get  scared  at  the  front.  He's  a  damn  liar  if 
he  says  he  don't  get  scared.  Ain't  that  you 
want  to  run  away  or  lose  your  guts  in  the 
fightin'.  No,  not  that  kind  of  scared  stuff. 
It's  like  this.  There  you  are  waitin'  for  some- 
thin'  to  come  along  and  take  you  off  on  some 
strange  trip.  You  know*  it's  goin*  to  hurt 
like  hell  gettin'  started,  too.  It's  that  uncer- 
tain, don't-know  stuff  that  gets  you.  When 
121 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

those  bombs  are  fallin'  and  you're  in  a  place 
like  we  was  that  night,  with  no  place  to  go, 
there's  nothin'  to  do  but  pull  a  cheesecloth 
blanket  over  your  head  and  try  to  cushay. 
Ain't  much  fun,  0.  D.  I  had  one  hell  of  a 
toothache  and  it  worried  me  so  much  I  didn't 
get  a  chance  to  be  as  scared  as  I  should  have 
been.  Funny  how  a  thing  like  a  toothache  can 
take  your  mind  off  other  troubles. 

''Things  got  so  bad  toward  five  bells  in  the 
mornin'  that  the  C.  0.  decided  to  wake  us  up 
and  move.  But  before  we  could  get  set  to 
move  the  shellin'  let  up  and  he  says,  'Ah,  let 
her  go,  we'll  stay.'  Camouflaged  the  old 
cheveaux  and  stuff  again  and  hung  'round 
for  breakfast.  Course  breakfast  only  meant 
a  thin  slice  of  bacon  and  a  fistful  of  hardtack. 
The  coffee  had  given  out  by  that  time.  You 
might  expect  that  the  supplies  could  have 
reached  us  easy.  But  gettin'  supplies  to  us 
was  like  findin*  a  nigger  in  the  dark.  I  swear 
I  believe  we  were  lost  durin'  most  of  the 
Chateau-Thierry  racket.  Seems  that  way, 
anyhow.  For  a  long  time  after  we  left  Mont 
St.  Pierre  the  batteries  never  did  know  where 
the  echelons  were  and  the  echelons  didn't  know 
where  anything  was.  Mules,  drivers,  and 
ration-carts  used  to  get  lost  every  day.  That's 
why  we  were  short  of  cafe. 
122 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

"Put  some  over  from  there  and  got  orders 
to  move  up  in  the  afternoon.  The  column  had 
just  got  formed  and  was  waitin'  on  the  order 
to  pull  when  a  drove  of  Boche  birds  headed 
straight  toward  us.  We  knew  they  were 
Boches  long  before  they  got  close  enough  to 
fire. 

"  'Look  at  'em  cominV  shouted  one  guy, 
and  the  whole  crew  popped  their  eyes  out. 

"I  felt  in  my  bones  that  we  were  in  for  a 
good  lickin'  of  some  kind,  but  I  had  my  horse 
to  watch  out  for,  so  I  was  tied  up,  as  it  were. 
Lots  of  the  other  guys  were  in  the  same  fix 
as  me,  and  when  the  officer  yelled,  'Take 
cover!'  we  didn't  know  what  in  hell  to  do. 

"  'Tie  your  mounts  to  a  wheel  and  beat  it,* 
says  my  platoon  commander. 

"Didn't  ask  for  any  further  orders.  Tied 
Jim  so  hard  he  couldn't  have  answered  mess- 
call.  Beat  it  to  the  edge  of  the  woods  and 
dove  under  a  ration-wagon.  The  Boches  was 
in  range  by  then  and  they  started  a  machine- 
gun  barrage.  Worst  thing  I  ever  was  in. 
They  had  us  by  the  halter-shanks,  and  maybe 
they  didn't  twist  and  squeeze!  We  didn't 
have  nothin'  to  get  back  at  them  birds  with. 
Blooey!  The  bombs  started  to  fall  and  bust. 

"An  M,  P.  got  crowned  on  the  bean.    He 

123 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

had  been  walking  post  on  the  pontoon  bridge. 
Tumbled  right  in  the  river  and  floated  away. 
Then  a  bomb  lands  right  in  the  middle  of  a 
caisson  team.  Horses'  legs  and  wheels  was 
flyin'  in  all  directions.  I  couldn't  find  my  tin 
hat  and  sure  was  glad  that  there  was  two 
fellows  layin'  on  top  of  me  as  the  machine- 
gun  bullets  was  zippin'  all  'round  us.  Every- 
body was  sayin',  'Where  in  hell  is  the  Ameri- 
can birds?  Why  don't  they  show  I'  After 
the  Boches  had  a  big  chance  to  finee  us  and 
the  bridge,  and  missed  out,  a  flock  of  Ameri- 
cans and  Frenchmen  showed  up  and  the 
Dutchmen  beat  it  toot  sweet.  That  was  one 
of  the  Hairbreath  Harry  things  that  we  had 
happen  that  day.  Believe  me,  there  wasn't 
much  time  lost  in  gettin'  that  column  movin' 
after  that.  When  they  counted  up  the  casual- 
ties it  was  found  that  there  was  'bout  twelve 
guys  killed,  nine  wounded,  and  we  lost  at 
least  eighteen  chevaux.  There  you  are,  0.  D. 
"Moved  toward  Beuvardis  that  afternoon. 
That  took  us  northwest  from  the  Marne  and 
farther  in  toward  Swasson  (Soissons),  our 
old  hunting-grounds.  There  was  some  tough 
fightin'  in  there,  believe  me.  The  Boches 
began  to  put  up  a  mean  defense;  their  artil- 
lery was  in  position  and  the  roads  sure  caught 

124 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

hell  for  a  while.  I  can't  remember  all  the 
woods  and  hills  we  had  to  take  and  hold,  but 
there  was  beaucoup  and  it  took  beaucoup  men 
killed  to  make  them  objectives. 

"The  monjayin'  got  worse  all  the  time  and 
our  nerves  began  to  get  just  like  a  ragged 
toothache.  So  many  of  the  fellows  was  gettin' 
bumped  off  and  hit  'round  us  that  a  man 
couldn't  help  wonderin'  if  his  own  name 
wasn't  written  on  a  shell  or  bullet.  I  saw  fat 
guys  get  as  lean  as  a  penny  stick  of  candy  in 
a  week's  time.  There  wasn't  no  chance  to 
shave  or  wash,  so  we  all  looked  as  wild  as 
cannibals  soon.  I  never  had  any  underclothes 
after  I  threw  away  that  stuff  I  got  at  Chateau- 
Thierry.  We  slept  full  pack  all  the  time  and 
the  cooties  had  one  big  party  all  day  and  all 
night.  That  was  the  time,  durin*  the  Second 
Battle  of  the  Marne,  that  young  majors  and 
colonels  got  gray-headed. 

"The  second  day  out  from  St.  Pierre  was 
the  day  that  I  had  a  big  argument  with  a  lieu- 
tenant who  blew  by  in  a  Ford.  He  was  wearin' 
a  campaign  hat.  Course  I  felt  superior  like  to 
any  man  that  was  wearin'  a  .campaign  hat  in 
them  days.  A  campaign  lid  was  the  sign  of  an 
S.  0.  S.  bird,  'cause  we  had  thrown  'em  to  the 
salvage-men  months  ago. 

125 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

"I  was  ploddin'  along  'way  behind  the  col- 
umn, with  Herb  Games  and  another  guy  just 
as  lazy — my  horse  had  been  taken  by  a  loot. 
Course  I  happened  to  have  my  high  hat  on. 
I'd  lost  my  overseas  cap,  also  my  helmet.  The 
loot  blows  by.  Never  thought  'bout  salutin' 
him.  That  kind  of  stuff  is  a  joke  up  at  the 
front,  especially  in  a  drive.  He  stops  toot 
sweet  and  calls  us  back. 

"  'Why  don't  you  salute  an  officer?'  he  asks 
me. 

"  'Salute?'  says  I,  kinda  dumfounded. 
'Hell,  we  don't  go  in  for  that  kind  of  stuff  in 
this  sector,'  I  told  him.  You  ought  to  seen 
that  man's  face. 

"  'How  long  have  you  men  been  over 
here  ? ' 

"  'Eleven  months.  How  long  have  you  been 
here?'  I  knew  he  had  just  landed.  His  Sam 
Browne  was  new-lookin'. 

"  'How  does  New  York  look  without  any 
lights  now?'  asked  Carnes. 

"Say,  that  officer  must  have  felt  like  fifty 
centimes.  He  saw  my  high  hat  'bout  that 
time. 

"  'Take  that  hat  off.  It  isn't  regulation,' 
says  the  second  looey  to  me. 

"  '^Regulation's  out  of  style  up  here/  says 

126 


&,    I 


& 


-I 


-JM 


titfM 


) 


L^iS 


**:-. 


•% 


'"TAKE  THAT  HAT  OFF.    IT  ISN'T  REGULATION,'  BATS  THE  SECOND 
LOOEY  TO  ME" 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

I.  'It's  all  I  got;  can't  take  a  chance  of  get- 
tin'  sunstruck.' 

"  ' Don't  give  a  damn,  take  it  off,'  he  com- 
mands. 

"I  tipped  my  hat  to  him,  bowed,  and  says, 
'Yes,  sir.'  We  moved  on.  'Bout  thirty  min- 
utes later  he  blows  by  again  and  sees  the  hat 
on  me. 

"  'Didn't  I  tell  you  to  take  that  hat  off!' 
he  yells. 

"  'Yes,  sir,'  I  yelled  back,  and  tipped  my 
hat  again. 

"Never  saw  that  gink  after  that,  but  it  just 
goes  to  show  you  how  some  of  them  guys 
fought  the  guerre,  runnin'  'round  in  Fords 
tryin'  to  get  salutes  and  make  things,  0.  D. 
You  never  see  any  of  our  officers  doin'  that 
kinda  stuff.  They  know  that  it's  all  bunk 
after  bein'  with  the  boys  in  the  lines. 

"Beauvardis,  or  just  beyond  it  a  few  kilos, 
is  where  Cap.  Davis  got  it.  We  was  'way 
up  close  to  the  front  lines  there.  Had  us  in 
front  of  the  light  pieces.  There  was  a  regi- 
ment of  seventy-fives  right  behind  us.  We 
went  into  position  in  a  place  where  the  Boches 
must  have  had  a  gun  position,  as  the  place 
was  littered  up  with  their  equipment  and 
beaucoup  dead  Germans.  I  didn't  get  in  until 
127 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

late  in  the  night,  right  in  the  middle  of  a 
barrage  that  the  seventy-fives  was  puttin'  up. 
The  woods  was  ringin'  with  a  noise  that 
sounded  as  if  the  devils  themselves  was 
shoutin'  and  yellin'  down  in  hell  and  we  was 
gettin'  a  loud  echo  of  it.  Before  us  the  whole 
country  was  lit  up  by  a  big  fire  from  a  burnin' 
German  ammunition  dump.  Sure  was  weird 
in  them  woods.  I  asked  where  I  was  to 
cushay,  and  Frank  Keynolds,  top-kick,  says, 
'Anywhere  'round  here.'  Bickford  and  I 
drops  our  load,  spread  the  blankets,  and  tried 
to  cushay.  No  human  bein'  could  sleep  much 
in  that  place.  But  we  managed  to  cork  off  a 
little  now  and  then.  The  woods  smelled  rot- 
ten. 

"When  daylight  came  I  looked  over  my 
head  and  saw  an  arm  pointin'  right  down  at 
me.  There  wasn't  no  head  or  body.  Just 
that  one  arm.  I  got  up  quick  as  hell.  Found 
out  I  had  been  restin'  my  head  against  a  dead 
Boche  all  night.  Felt  like  runnin',  but  was 
afraid  I  might  run  right  into  the  German 
lings.  They  was  only  a  few  yards  away  over 
a  little  hill. 

"That  mornin'  we  got  more  movin*  orders. 
Our  doughboys  had  already  been  relieved  by 
the  Forty-second  Division  infantry,  as  they 
128 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

were  all  shot  to  hell.  I'll  bet  that  there  wasn't 
a  full  battalion  left  in  any  regiment.  The 
Eainbow  doughboys  can  fight,  now,  buddy,  I 
ain't  jokin'.  They  made  us  artillery  hump 
to  keep  up  with  'em,  too.  But  guess  we  did, 
as  most  of  'em  said  our  barrages  was  as  good 
to  go  over  under  as  an  umbrella  is  in  the  rain. 
There  ain't  much  use  tellin'  much  more. 
Course,  as  I  said,  Cap.  Davis  got  picked  near 
Beauvardis.  He  was  steppin'  out  of  his  P.  C. 
when  a  shell  fragment  knocked  him  cold. 
Funny  how  all  good  men  get  it  so  quick.  He 
was  only  a  kid,  but,  believe  me,  he  had  guts 
and  could  handle  a  battery. 

"We  got  up  to  Sergy  Plateau  and  cleaned 
the  Germans  off  that  place  and  they  relieved 
us.  We  had  been  in  the  drive  from  July  fif- 
teenth to  August  fourth — that's  a  long  time 
to  battle,  0.  D.  Accordin'  to  reports,  we 
gained  'bout  twenty-five  kilometers  against 
the  Boches.  Not  bad,  eh?"  concluded  Jim- 
my, starting  to  stretch. 

"Gee!  you  had  some  war  experience,  Jim- 
my. They  sure  must  have  given  you  a  long 
rest  and  furlough  after  all  that  time  at  the 
front." 

"Best?  Hell,  man,  there  ain't  no  such  thing 
in  this  man's  army.  Time  we  got  pulled  out 

129 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

of  Chateau-Thierry  we  went  back  to  La  Ferte 
and  waited  there  for  trains  to  take  ns  to  a 
rest  area  I  got  transferred  back  to  Battery 
C  there.  We  was  only  in  that  rest  area  ten 
days  and  while  there  I'll  bet  we  did  more 
work  than  at  the  front.  We  had  hikes  every 
day  and  drillin'.  They  even  tried  to  pull  that 
salutin'  stuff  again.  Only  good  thing  'bout 
the  rest  area  was  that  we  could  take  a  bath, 
as  there  was  beaucoup  little  creeks  'round, 
and  of  course  it's  warm  here  in  August.  On 
the  tenth  day  I  was  standin'  on  a  big  lawn 
with  Samson  and  a  couple  of  other  guys  look- 
in'  at  the  divisional  minstrel.  Bight  in  the 
middle  of  the  song  up  jumps  the  C.  0.  of  the 
regiment  and  bawls  out,  'Men  we're  off  to 
another  fight!'  He  must  have  been  an  actor 
in  civil  life  'cause  he  sure  did  pull  the  old 
dramatic  stuff;  believe  he  waited  just  for  that 
minute  to  spill  the  beans  'bout  movin'  to  an- 
other front.  That  night  we  was  on  the  old 
road  hiMn'.  Got  on  another  French  train. 
Hit  Bar-le-Duc  two  days  ago,  started  hikin' 
this  way  yesterday  mornin'  and  I  got  lost 
from  the  gang  last  night.  That's  all  there  is 
to  it,  0.  D.  Just  waitin'  for  the  guerre  to  finee 
now.  Then  we'll  get  a  seven-day  leave,  purtet 
— that's  what  the  Frogs  say  for  perhaps. 

130 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

What  do  you  say  to  a  little  cushayin',  0.  D.1 
I  get  kinda  drowsy  in  the  eyes  'round  nerver 
— used  to  hittin'  the  blankets  'bout  seven  bells 
every  night  now,  tryin'  to  make  up  for  time 
lost  at  Chateau-Thierry."  Jimmy  yawned  to 
show  how  true  his  statement  was. 

" Jimmy,  you  don't  mind  if  I  tell  some  of 
the  things  you  said  to  Mary  and  mother  in  my 
next  letter,  do  you?"  asked  0.  D.,  as  he  was 
pullin'  his  hobnails  off. 

"No — just  so  long  as  you  don't  hit  the 
guerre  stuff  too  hard.  That  red,  battle-front 
stuff  ain't  good  for  their  hearts,  you  savvy? 
Gets  'em  all  scared  for  nothin',"  cautioned 
Jimmy. 

Both  boys  were  tired  and  they  were  almost 
asleep  when  Jimmy  stirred  and  blurted  out: 

"Say,  0.  D.,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  you're 
liable  to  get  beaucoup  cooties  cushayin'  with 
me.  I'm  crawlin'." 

"I'll  get  them  sooner  or  later,  anyhow, 
won't  I?"  asked  0.  D. 

"Sure  thing,"  assured  the  man  with  cooties. 

"Then  I  might  just  as  well  get  used  to  them 
toot  sweet,"  declared  the  man  who  was  about 
to  find  out  just  what  the  thing  that  Jimmy 
McGee  called  the  guerre  really  meant. 

"That's  the  right  dope.    You  won't  be  long 

131 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

gettin'  on  the  front  if  you're  willin*  to  learn. 
Bon  swoir,  0.  D."  Jimmy  felt  mighty  proud 
of  his  new  pupil,  then  he  dropped  off  and 
forgot  the  guerre  in  a  dream  of  Mary  Pres- 
ton. 


XI 


A    CRAW    DE    GUERRE 

1T)ONJOUR,  0.  D.  How  did  you  cu- 
JD  shayf"  was  Jimmy  McGee's  greeting 
to  0.  D.  the  next  morning  as  he  came  out  of 
a  sound  sleep. 

"Great  sleeping  in  these  beds,  Jimmy. 
Don't  know  just  how  I'll  get  out.  Gee!  I'm 
down  about  four  feet. 

"Yep.  You've  got  to  be  a  regular  three- 
ring  circus  acrobat  to  climb  out  of  a  French 
lee  without  hurtin'  yourself, "  admitted  Jim- 
my as  he  got  a  good  hold  on  the  side  of  the 
bed  and  pulled  himself  out. 

0.  D.  followed  his  example,  but  experienced 
quite  a  lot  of  difficulty  in  doing  so. 

"I'll  ask  madame  to  fix  us  up  a  little 
petit  dayjunay  of  some  kind  before  we  hit  the 
road  again.  Course  a  petit  dayjunay  ain't 
any  too  much  in  a  marchin*  man's  stomach. 
Means  a  bowl  of  cafe  and  a  slice  of  bread. 
We  may  be  lucky  to-day  and  run  across  a 
truck-driver  who'll  give  us  a  lift.  Them  kind 

133 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

of  guys  are  mighty  scarce  in  this  army. 
Frenchmen  will  give  you  a  lift  before  an 
American.  Unless,  of  course,  he  belongs  to 
your  division." 

While  Jimmy  was  winding  his  last  puttee 
on,  the  madame  came  in  the  room  and  asked 
him  if  he  and  his  friend  would  eat.  Jimmy 
told  her  oui  and  the  woman  clattered  out  to 
prepare  the  cafe. 

"Now  what  do  you  think  of  cafe-ooo-lay, 
O.  D.?"  asked  Jimmy  as  he  raised  his  bowl 
to  finish  what  was  left. 

"Trey—"  0.  D.  stammered  as  if  he  had 
forgotten  just  what  he  intended  to  say. 

"Trey-beans,  you  want  to  say.  That  means 
very  good  in  French,"  prompted  Jimmy. 

"Thanks.  I'll  get  it  after  a  while,  I  guess. 
But  say,  is  beans  a  French  word,  too?" 

"No.  Don't  believe  it  is.  But  sounds 
enough  like  French  to  use  it  0.  K.  The  Frogs 
understand  it  all  right.  Well,  we  '11  get  strapped 
up  and  on  the  way.  Got  to  try  and  make 
the  outfit  to-day.  There's  somethin'  up  in  our 
comin'  up  here  so  sudden  and  we  can't  afford 
to  miss  anythin'.  Got  a  hunch,  0.  D.,  that 
the  Boches  is  goin*  to  get  an  awful  beatin*  up 
in  these  parts.  Heard  Frenchmen  say  it 
wasn't  possible  to  drive  the  Germans  out  of 

134 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

the  positions  they've  got  'round  Verdun  and 
St.  Mihiel.  Put  a  bunch  of  Americans  in 
there.  I'll  bet  all  the  pay  they  owe  me,  and 
that's  three  months  now,  that  we'll  take  Metz. 
Say,  O.  D.,  I  'ain't  got  over  four  francs. 
How  are  you  set  on  f rankers?" 

"I  just  got  paid  a  few  days  ago.  Let's 
see,"  said  0.  D.,  counting  his  money.  "Oh, 
about  sixty-five  francs.  How  much  do  you 
want?" 

"I'll  ask  madame  how  much  we  owe," 
answered  Jimmy.  "Madame,  combienf" 

The  madame  told  him  to  wait  a  minute.  She 
got  an  old  pencil  and  a  piece  of  paper  and 
started  figuring. 

"It's  a  fact,  0.  D.,  these  Frogs  can't  tell 
you  how  much  a  glass  of  van  rouge  costs 
without  workin'  it  out  on  paper.  Ain't  it  the 
limit.  Look  at  her  now." 

Finally  the  madame  reached  a  conclusion 
of  figures. 

"Dix  francs/'  she  told  Jimmy. 

"That's  ten  francs  or  two  dollars,"  in- 
terpreted Jimmy  to  0.  D. 

0.  D.  gave  her  a  ten-franc  note  without 
another  word. 

"That's  five  francs  I  owe  you,  0.  D.  Keep 
'count  of  that,  will  you!" 

135 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

"Forget  it,  Jimmy.  What  I've  got  is 
yours.  Compree?"  asked  O.  D.,  showing  the 
effect  of  association  with  McGee  in  his  lan- 
guage. 

1  'Gee!  you're  gettin'  the  stuff  great.  Well, 
we're  off.  Bon  jour,  ma-dame.  Merci  beau- 
coup/'  said  Jimmy,  shaking  hands  with  the 
madame.  0.  D.  did  the  same  and  mumbled 
something  that  sounded  like  "Banjo." 

"Au  revoir,  messieurs,"  responded  the  old 
woman. 

Down  the  village  street  they  ambled  like  a 
pair  of  old  comrades. 

Just  as  they  were  getting  near  the  last 
house  on  the  Grande  Hue  a  couple  of  Ameri- 
can soldiers  came  out  of  a  barn  door.  Hay 
was  sticking  to  their  clothes  and  around 
their  necks  and  heads.  They  approached 
Jimmy  and  0.  D. 

"What  outfit,  buddy?"  asked  the  first  one 
to  Jimmy. 

"Twenty-sixth  division.  Know  where  any 
of  the  Twenty-sixth  is  'bout  here?"  was  Jim- 
my's question. 

"You're  gang  got  a  YD  painted  on  all  your 
stuff?" 

"Oui,"  answered  Jimmy. 

"Well,  there  was  artillery  passed  through 

136 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

here  yesterday  noon — beaucoup  of  it — whole 
regiment  about.  Say  have  you  seen  anything 
of  the  Twenty-eighth  Division!  We  got  lost 
a  few  days  ago.  'Ain't  been  able  to  locate 
'em  yet." 

"No,  can't  say  I  know  where  you're  outfit 
is.  Which  way  did  that  artillery  go  I" 

"Straight  up  the  Verdun  road  toward 
Souilly.  Find  anything  to  monjay  or  drink 
here?"  asked  the  Twenty-eighth  Division  man. 

"Oui,  got  beaucoup  pom  du  tear  fritz,  dey 
serfs,  and  van  rouge  down  the  line  there," 
and  Jimmy  pointed  out  the  house  where  he 
and  0.  D.  had  spent  the  night. 

"Merci.  Well,  be  good  and  take  care. 
Just  out  of  Chateau-Thierry,  ain't  you?" 

"Oui.  So  long,  fellows!"  answered  Jim- 
my, and  he  and  0.  D.  hiked  on  toward  Ver- 
dun. 

During  the  course  of  two  kilometers  three 
trucks  passed  the  hikers.  Chances  of  riding 
looked  pas  bons  to  them  when  another  truck 
appeared  on  the  crest  of  a  high  hill,  making 
toward  them. 

"Maybe  this  guy '11  have  a  heart.  We'll 
stop  here  and  look  tired  as  hell,"  said  Jim- 
my, stopping  on  the  roadside. 

The  truck  came  closer. 

137 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

"Hell  afire!    Believe  it's  a  YD  truck,  0.  D." 

"How  'bout  a  lift,  buddy!"  shouted  Jimmy 
as  the  truck  was  almost  up  to  them. 

The  driver  slowed  down  and  let  them  climb 
on. 

"What   outfit,   buddy?"   he   asked   Jimmy. 

"One  Hundred  and  Third  Field  Artillery, 
Jack." 

"Thought  you  looked  like  a  YD  man,"  an- 
swered the  driver  as  he  changed  gears. 

They  made  about  four  kilometers  when  the 
driver  complained  of  feeling  hot.  He  stopped 
his  truck  and  started  taking  off  his  leather 
jerkin.  There  was  a  Croix  de  Guerre  pinned 
over  his  heart.  0.  D.  saw  it  and  his  eyes 
bulged  out. 

"I  see  you're  a  hero,"  said  0.  D.,  pointing 
to  the  bronze  medal  attached  to  the  green 
ribbon. 

"Hero,  hell!"  exclaimed  the  driver.  "Any- 
body can  get  one  of  these  things.  The  Frogs 
wear  'em  as  souvenirs  of  the  guerre.  You 
can  buy  a  dozen  for  a  few  francs.  I  was 
lucky  enough  to  have  this  one  given  to  me," 
he  explained. 

"What  did  you  do,  swipe  a  bag  of  white 
sugar  and  give  it  to  some  French  general?" 
asked  Jimmy. 

13* 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,  buddy,  this  thing  was 
given  to  me  for  bravery  under  fire  and  de- 
votion to  duty.  That's  the  way  the  paper 
read,  anyhow.  I  was  drivin'  up  to  Chateau- 
Thierry  in  this  junk  with  some  bread.  Got 
pretty  near  Saacy  when  I  run  into  beaucoup 
shell-fire.  The  big  boys  was  bustin'  ahead  of 
me  and  behind  me — all  around  me.  Wasn't 
anything  else  to  do  so  I  climbs  down  and  gets 
under  the  engine,  thinkin'  that  the  truck  would 
give  me  a  bit  of  protection  from  splinters. 
Had  on  my  jumpers  and  in  my  jumpers  was 
a  little  hammer.  Lucky  for  me  it  was.  A 
bunch  of  Frogs  includin'  a  colonel  gets  chased 
out  of  the  woods  by  shells.  Happens  that 
they  come  straight  toward  me.  I  had  sense 
enough  to  start  tinkerin'  with  the  engine  so 
as  to  leave  a  good  impression.  The  colonel 
spots  me.  He  could  talk  some  English.  Tells 
me  all  kinds  of  bull  about  bein'  brave  under 
shell-fire.  I  didn't  spoil  his  speech  by  tellin' 
him  I  was  scared  to  death.  He  takes  my 
name  and  outfit.  Few  weeks  later  I  get  a 
paper  citin'  me  and  givin'  me  right  to  wear 
a  Craw  de  Guerre.  Well,  I  stayed  right  un- 
der there  tappin'  away  until  the  shellin'  quit, 
which  happened  toot  sweet.  Can  you  beat  it! 
The  guerre' s  a  farce  so  long  as  it  don't  get 
you,  eh,  buddy  V9  to  Jimmy. 

139 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

"I'll  say  so.  That's  what  I  teU  my  friend 
here.  He  'ain't  never  been  up  yet,"  answered 
Jimmy. 

"Never  seen  the  front,  eh,  Jack?"  this  to 
0.  D. 

"No,  not  yet,"  admitted  0.  D. 

"Well,  you'll  be  disappointed  if  you're 
lookin'  for  all  that  you  heard  tell  about.  Once 
you  get  used  to  starvin',  wearin'  one  suit  of 
underclothes  about  three  months,  and  cusliay- 
in'  out  in  any  old  mud-hole  there  won't  be 
much  excitement  for  you.  All  the  other 
things  depend  on  your  own  good  luck.  If 
the  Kaiser  'ain't  got  your  number  you'll  pull 
through  without  a  scratch.  I  know.  I  was  in 
the  infantry  not  long  ago." 

Jimmy  and  the  Yankee  division  truck-driver 
fought  the  battles  of  Chateau-Thierry  all  over 
again  while  0.  D.  listened  and  didn't  miss  a 
word.  The  things  that  the  veterans  talked 
and  laughed  about  caused  his  mind  a  thousand 
and  one  perplexities.  He  had  always  formed 
his  ideas  and  pictures  of  the  front  according 
to  the  suggestion  and  impressions  of  men  and 
women  who  painted  the  existence  on  the  lines 
as  a  red  hell-life  of  misery  and  sufferings. 

He  could  only  conceive  the  front  as  a  sinis- 
ter, shadowy  place,  abounding  in  terrors  and 

140 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

hardships,  where  men  were  fighting  one  an- 
other day  and  night,  while  the  guns  roared 
away  incessantly.  But  beside  him  were  two 
boys  who  spoke  of  the  front  as  if  it  were  a 
playground  of  strange  adventure  where  by 
mere  accident,  rather  than  by  deliberate  exe- 
cution, men  were  killed  or  wounded.  He  was 
certain,  instinctively,  that  these  boys  knew 
what  they  were  talking  of.  He  knew  that 
men  cannot  tell  about  living  with  death,  while 
laughing  and  singing  of  life,  unless  they 
have  actually  done  such  a  thing. 

0.  D.  heard  Jimmy  tell  of  buying  a  suit  of 
underclothes  at  La  Ferte,  after  his  outfit  had 
been  taken  out  of  the  fight  shattered  to  the 
bone  from  continual  battling.  He  judged 
from  the  way  Jimmy  said  it  that  he  would 
remember  buying  that  forty-franc  suit  of 
underclothes  when  his  memory  of  the  capture 
of  Hill  190  would  grow  dim.  Jimmy  cussed 
more  because  the  army  was  unable  to  give  him 
underclothes  at  that  time  than  he  did  over  the 
fact  that  he  had  to  lug  ninety-five-pound 
shells  on  a  stomach  that  had  been  empty  for 
twenty-four  hours. 

0.  D.  wondered  if  he  would  ever  be  able  to 
understand  the  life  of  the  front  as  his  new 
friend  Jimmy  did.  He  wondered  if  there  was 

10  141 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

enough  good  stuff  in  him  to  make  him  accept 
his  burden  of  front-line  work  like  the  other 
men  who  had  already  gone  in  and  proved 
themselves.  0.  D.  wondered  a  hundred  things 
that  were  all  closely  associated  with  the  fact 
that  he  was  about  to  enter  a  life  that  would 
bring  him  face  to  face  with  supreme  sacrifice. 
Like  a  hundred  thousand  other  American 
boys,  before  and  after  him,  0.  D.  saw  the  big- 
ness of  the  test  that  awaited  every  young 
novice  on  the  battle-field,  and  he  was  con^ 
cerned  only  with  the  one  question:  "Can  I 
make  good!" 

"Well,  here  we  are  at  Heippes,"  said  the 
driver,  cutting  a  story  of  the  capture  of  Vaux 
short.  "Your  outfit's  up  'round  Souilly,  I 
think.  I  turn  off  here  and  go  out  toward 
Eambluzen.  Be  good,  Jack,  and  take  care  of 
your  friend  here,"  indicating  0.  D. 

"Om,  bet  your  life.  Au  revoir,  old  man," 
answered  Jimmy. 

"Thanks,"  said  0.  D. 

"Not  at  all,  Jack;  glad  to  give  you  a  lift," 
shouted  the  driver,  and  he  was  off. 

"That's  a  regular  guy,"  said  Jimmy.  "You 
take  any  fellow  that's  been  through  what  we 
have  and  he's  damn  glad  to  help  a  guy  out. 
He  knows  himself  what  it  is  to  be  hungry 

142 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

and  tired.  This  old  war's  teachin'  a  few  guys 
that  there's  others  in  the  world  besides  them- 
selves. Guess  it's  time  to  monjay.  Take  a 
look  for  the  cafe  here.  Hold  it  here  a  min- 
ute. I'll  ask  this  M.  P.  guy  where  a  man 
can  get  a  bite.'7  Jimmy  headed  for  an  M.  P. 

"Say,  Jack,  where 's  there  a  place  to  mon- 
jay 'round  here?"  he  asked. 

" Couldn't  tell  you,  buddy.  Only  been  here 
a  week,"  answered  the  M.  P. 

"A  week,"  repeated  Jimmy.  "What  do 
you  have  to  do,  spend  a  winter  in  a  place  to 
find  out  where  the  grub  is?  Have  you  seen 
artillery  go  by  here  lately?" 

"Nope — nothin'  lately — in  three  days  or 
so." 

"What  was  it,  seventy-fives  or  one  hundred 
and  fifty-fives—big  or  little?  What?" 

"Don't  remember,"  answered  the  M.  P.  as 
he  motioned  a  car  to  go  by. 

"Hell  afire,  0.  D.,  I  knew  it.  Those  M.  P.'s 
don't  even  know  there's  a  guerre  goin'  on," 
said  Jimmy,  with  disgust.  "Follow  me,  I'll 
find  somethin'  toot  sweet,"  and  Jimmy  McGee 
started  toward  a  house  about  one  hundred 
feet  away. 


XII 

o.  D.  MEETS  JIMMY'S  GANG 

AFTER  going  through  the  same  old  stuff 
with  the  madame,  Jimmy,  with  the 
help  of  Gabrielle,  madame 's  nineteen-  year-old 
daughter,  finally  succeeded  in  arranging  for 
a  dinner  of  pomme  de  terre  frites  and  an 
omelet. 

While  they  were  washing  up  a  little  bit, 
Gabrielle  told  Jimmy  that  there  were  three 
Americans  sleeping  in  the  house.  The  girl 
told  him  that  the  Americans  had  arrived  the 
night  before,  tired  out  and  hungry.  None  of 
them  had  got  up  yet,  she  told  him. 

Jimmy  was  just  taking  a  man's  share  of 
the  potatoes  when  the  door  in  front  of  him 
opened. 

"Jimmy  McGee!  You  old  son  of  a  gun! 
What  in  hell!" 

"George  Neil!"  shouted  Jimmy  as  he 
rushed  at  the  new-comer  and  nearly  bowled 
him  off  his  feet.  "How  did  you  get  in  here?" 

"Cushayed  too  long  and  the  outfit  left  me 

144 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

back  in  some  little  joint  ten  kilos  or  so  from 
Bar-le-Duc.  Joyce  and  Pop  Kigney  are  still 
cushayin'.  Who's  your  friend?"  asked  Neil, 
pointing  to  0.  D. 

"Oh,  hell,  I  almost  forgot.  This  is  0.  D. 
Picked  him  up  yesterday;  he's  goin'  to  the 
outfit  as  a  replacement.  Meet  my  pal,  George 
Neil,  0.  D." 

"Glad  to  know  you,  sergeant,"  said  0.  D., 
shaking  Neil's  outstretched  hand. 

"Forget  the  sergeant  stuff,  old  man.  Glad 
to  meet  anybody  that  Jimmy  McGee  knows. 
But  what  did  you  say  that  your  name  was?" 

"It's  William  G.  Preston,  but  Jimmy—," 
answered  0.  D. 

"I  changed  it  to  0.  D.  Don't  you  think 
that's  better,  George.  Look  at  the  way  he's 
rigged  up,"  interrupted  Jimmy. 

"You're  right,  Jimmy.  Where  did  you  en- 
list from,  0.  D.?"  asked  Neil. 

"He  was  drafted.  But  that  don't  make  any 
difference.  Wasn't  his  fault  he  didn't  volun- 
teer. I  got  his  whole  story  and  it's  straight. 
He's  one  of  us  from  now  on  and  I'm  goin' 
to  get  him  in  the  outfit,"  declared  Jimmy. 

"Good  stuff— shake  on  that,  0.  D.,"  and 
George  Neil  shook  hands  with  the  drafted 
man  to  show  him  how  he  felt. 

145 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

"Messieurs,  voluez-vous  manger?"  (Mes- 
sieurs, will  you  eat?) 

1  'Bet  your  life.  Oui,  mademoiselle,  toot 
sweet,"  answered  McGee  as  he  began  getting 
chairs  up  to  the  table. 

"Let  those  two  mopes  cushay.  We'll  mon- 
jay  and  then  call  'em  out,"  suggested  Neil. 

In  answer  to  his  suggestion  the  door  of 
the  room  that  he  had  been  sleeping  in  opened 
and  a  bald  head  stuck  out. 

"Look  out,  Pop — cover  that  bald  dome  up. 
You're  too  old  to  be  goin*  'round  uncovered," 
warned  Jimmy. 

"I'll  show  you  how  old  I  am  if  I  get  skinned 
out  of  those  poms  and  dey  zerfs,"  shot  back 
Pop  Eigney,  as  he  pulled  his  bald  head  be- 
hind the  protection  of  the  door.  He  began 
talking  to  Joyce,  who  was  still  in  bed,  and  the 
men  at  the  table  knew  that  Pop  was  warning 
him  to  dash  for  the  table  unless  he  wanted  to 
starve. 

The  meal  progressed  as  all  meals  do  when 
young  American  soldiers  are  eating  in  a 
French  home,  with  much  misunderstanding 
as  to  the  exact  meaning  of  the  things  that  are 
said  in  the  French  and  English  languages. 
Gabrielle  laughed  over  their  funny  way  of 
talking  her  native  language  and  rtried  to 

146 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

help  matters  by  using  her  only  stock  and 
store  of  English,  which  was  represented  by 
the  words  "yes"  and  "finish." 

"I  want  some  water  myself,"  admitted 
Jimmy,  after  finishing  his  meal,  "but  I'm 
scared  to  ask  for  it  after  last  night." 

"I'll  ask  her,"  volunteered  Neil, 

"Gabrielle,"  he  called. 

She  answered  with  a  big,  wonderful  smile 
and  came  over  to  him. 

"Donnay  mwa  glass  de  low,"  was  Neil's 
way  of  telling  her  his  want. 

Gabrielle  looked  helplessly  at  the  empty 
dishes.  A  little  frown  of  perplexity  showed 
on  her  forehead.  Gradually  the  frown  was 
camouflaged  by  a  spreading  smile  of  under- 
standing light. 

"Oh,  finish?"  she  asked  him. 

"Great  Lord,  'ain't  she  got  wonderful  blue 
eyes!"  ejaculated  Neil.  "Some  of  these  peas- 
ant girls  are  sure  the  darb.  Wish  I  could 
parley  her  talk." 

"I'll  get  that  water  myself,"  said  Jimmy, 
rising.  He  found  a  glass  and  went  outside  to 
look  for  a  pump.  Gabrielle  watched  him 
smilingly,  wishing  that  she  could  comprehend 
the  wants  of  the  big,  good-natured  American 

147 


;WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

boys  with  whom  she  found  it  so  easy  to  make 
friends. 

"  'Ain't  been  over  long,  have  you?"  asked 
Neil  of  0.  D.  as  Jimmy  disappeared  through 
the  doorway. 

"Just  about  two  months.  Spent  all  my  time 
down  at  the  replacement  camps  waiting  to  be 
sent  to  some  outfit." 

"Well,  you  are  gettin'  in  with  a  darn  good 
outfit  and  Jimmy's  a  great  guy  for  a  friend. 
He'll  show  you  'round  the  front." 

"Guess  I'll  feel  kind  of  funny  going  up 
there  with  all  you  fellows  that  are  used  to  it," 
said  0.  D. 

"Not  at  all;  you'll  never  know  the  differ- 
ence. Two  or  three  days  and  you'll  think 
you've  been  there  all  your  life.  After  a 
month  you'll  hardly  ever  know  you  used  to 
live  in  a  house  back  in  the  States.  Gets  in 
your  blood.  Just  like  the  mud  up  there  gets 
all  over  you.  Make  friends  with  the  cooties. 
Then  you're  all  set,"  explained  Neil. 

"Jerk  aloose  from  that  table  and  let  two 
good  men  monjay,"  shouted  Pop  Eigney  and 
Joyce,  pushing  their  door  open  and  making 
for  what  was  left  in  one  of  the  dishes. 

"Meet  Jimmy's  friend,  0.  D.  This  is  Pop 
Bigney,  the  oldest  man  in  this  man's  army, 

148 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

and  the  other  fellow  is  Joyce,  our  supply  ser- 
geant." The  men  shook  hands  all  around  and 
sat  down. 

"I  got  that  water.  Had  to  walk  almost  a 
mile  to  find  it,"  said  Jimmy,  entering.  "Well, 
Eigney,  you  old  bald-headed  monkey,  you  got 
up,  eh?  Guess  Joyce's  mess-hound  appetite 
did  it.  Well,  you  can  monjay  what  I  left." 

Rigney  and  Joyce  got  enough  by  accepting 
odds  and  ends.  When  they  finished  it  was 
agreed  that  the  party  move  on  and  catch  the 
outfit. 

"Combien,  Gabrielle?"  asked  Jimmy. 

"Dix  f  ranee,  pour  tons,"  she  answered. 
(Ten  francs  for  everything.) 

"Not  bad  at  all.  Gettin'  kinda  sick  of  the 
highway-robbery  stuff.  Guess  you'll  have  to 
pay,  George;  I'm  flat,"  said  Jimmy. 

"Oui,"  answered  Neil.  He  gave  Gabrielle 
three  five-franc  notes  and  told  her  to  keep  the 
change. 

"Monsieur,  vous  donney  trop!  (you  give 
too  much,  monsieur)  she  tolcl  him,  insisting 
that  he  take  what  was  over  and  above. 

"Forget  it,"  refusing  the  returned  money. 

"Herd  Itien,  monsieur,"  answered  Gabri- 
elle. 

Au  revoirs  were  quickly  said.     The  little 

149 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

party  of  Yanks  started  off  in  the  general 
direction  of  Verdun  over  the  great  white  high- 
way that  many  Frenchmen  call  the  "  Sacred 
Road." 

"Got  any  idea  where  the  outfit  is,  Joyce?*' 
asked  0.  D.,  after  two  kilometers  had  been 
left  behind  with  their  hobnail  tracks. 

"Heard  they're  right  near  Souilly.  Believe 
they'll  hang  there  a  day  or  so  and  then  go 
into  the  lines.  Big  stuff  on  up  here.  Heard 
about  it?" 

"Lot  of  rumors  'bout  a  big  smash,  but 
nothin'  certain.  What  dope  did  you  get?" 
asked  Jimmy. 

"Nothin'  but  that  everybody  from  the  big 
guys  down  are  looking  for  a  drive  to  start  and 
go  through  to  Metz.  Dope  is  we  start  the  push 
on  early  in  September,  about  the  tenth  or  so. 
'Ain't  got  any  too  much  time." 

"Guess  we'll  be  right  up  in  the  front  end  of 
this  thing.  Better  get  us  some  new  chevaux. 
I'm  tired  listening  to  that  'Cannoneer  on  the 
Wheel,'  stuff,"  snorted  Rigney. 

"If  it'll  end  this  guerre  any  quicker  I'm 
with  'em  to  drive  all  winter,"  declared  Jimmy. 

O.  D.  listened  to  his  new  friends  talk  about 
driving  and  pushing,  and  many  other  things 
that  happen  only  at  the  front,  with  the  feeling 

150 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

that  he  was  a  rank  outsider  in  their  company. 
They  spoke  so  casually  of  attacking  the  Ger- 
mans and  taking  Metz  that  0.  D.  could  not 
dissuade  himself  from  believing  that  at  times 
war  must  be  a  sort  of  picnic.  Yet  something 
told  him  that  while  these  men  spoke  as  lightly 
as  they  did  of  fighting  they  knew  the  hell  of 
it,  too.  He  wondered  again  and  again  if  when 
it  came  his  time  to  learn,  as  they  had  done 
before  him,  he  would  be  able  to  accept  the  fun 
and  hell  just  as  they  did.  That  thought  wor- 
ried 0.  D.  more  than  anything  else. 

"How  far  is  that  place  where  you  think 
the  outfit  is?"  asked  old  Pop  Eigney.  The 
five  kilometers  that  brought  them  to  another 
little  village  had  brought  some  aches  and 
weariness  to  his  aging  limbs. 

"Another  kilometer  or  two,  I  guess,"  an- 
swered Joyce. 

"Better  grab  a  truck.  You  don't  know 
where  we're  going,"  was  Kigney's  sugges- 
tion. 

"Gosh!  There's  a  Y.  M.  C.  A.  sign.  Let's 
go  over  and  get  some  cigarettes.  No  tellin'  if 
we'll  ever  see  them  again.  Gettin'  up  close 
now,  you  know,"  warned  Jimmy. 

"We're  off,"  said  Neil. 

The  quintet  made  for  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  hut. 

151 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

"Any  cigarettes?"  asked  Joyce  of  the  man 
behind  the  canteen  counter. 

"Not  to-day.  All  out  of  smokings,"  was 
the  disappointing  answer. 

"Any  chocolate  or  cookies!'*  questioned 
Jimmy. 

"Expect  stuff  in  to-morrow.  Hard  to  get 
transportation,"  curtly. 

"Oh,  well.  We'll  live  through  it,"  said 
Jimmy. 

Once  outside  Pop  Eigney  said  what  he 
thought. 

"What  the  hell  is  wrong  with  them  guys? 
Always  the  same  old  stuff — 'Out  to-day;  come 
to-morrow.  I'm  off  'em,"  declared  Pop. 

"Damn  if  I  know.  Look  at  the  Chateau- 
Thierry  times  when  we  never  was  able  to  get 
the  stuff.  I'm  for  the  Salvation  Army  every 
time,"  announcd  Jimmy. 

"We  used  to  have  darn  good  Y,  M.  C.  A.'s 
back  at  the  replacement  camps.  Always  had 
lots  of  cigarettes,  chocolate,  and  cakes.  Twice 
a  week  we  had  pictures  and  shows,"  stated 
0.  D. 

"Sure,  'way  back  in  the  S.  O.  S. — why 
wouldn't  they  have  everything?  What  good 
is  that  doin'  the  guys  up  at  the  front  where 
you  can't  buy  the  stuff.  Just  like  the  eats  and 

152 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

clothes.  Back  in  the  States  I  guess  the  folks 
think  that  all  the  good  stuff  goes  up  to  the 
fightin'  men.  Like  hell  it  does,"  snapped 
Jimmy. 

A  big  green  truck  approached  them. 

"Hell,  there's  the  Regimental  Supply  truck. 
Let's  climb  on,"  shouted  Neil  as  he  started 
running  to  meet  the  camion. 

"Make  it  fast,  boys,"  said  Champ,  the 
driver,  "I  got  to  get -back  to  camp  and  make 
another  trip  for  supplies  before  night.  We're 
movin'  up  to-morrow,  you  know." 

"Good  stuff.  Where  're  we  goin'?  Any- 
body know?"  asked  Jimmy. 

"Yep;  near  a  place  that  sounds  like  Rupt. 
Something  else  tacked  onto  it,  but  don't 
remember.  We're  goin'  to  start  this  drive 
soon." 

"Gettin'  any  fresh  beef  in  for  supplies 
now!"  asked  Joyce. 

"Beaucoup  'canned  willy';  that's  about 
all,"  replied  Champ. 

"Get  ready  to  monjay  that  stuff  another 
two  months,  I  guess.  Wouldn't  it  give  a  man 
a  pain!"  groaned  Neil. 

"There's  the  gang  over  yonder  along  that 
road.  See  'em?"  asked  Champ,  pointing  to  a 
road  over  to  the  left. 

153 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

"Oui,  pretty  good  camouflage;  but  you  can 
tell  it,"  answer  Jimmy. 

1  'I  don't  see  anything.  Where  do  you 
mean?"  asked  0.  D. 

"All  along  that  road.  See  the  tree  branches 
and  stuff  that  looks  like  it's  growin'  out  in 
the  road.  That's  the  guns  and  stuff.  They're 
camouflaged  on  account  of  Boche  planes.  The 
horses  are  down  in  the  woods  some  place," 
explained  Jimmy. 

"I  see  now  what  you  mean.  Gee!  that 
camouflage  is  fine  stuff;  I'd  never  know  it  was 
anything  from  here,"  admitted  0.  D. 

"You'll  pick  camouflage  from  the  real  stuff 
toot  sweet,  O.  D;  don't  worry." 

"Say,  we  better  hit  the  road  here  and  slip 
in.  Some  boob  may  ask  what  we're  doin' 
blowin'  in  at  this  time  of  day,"  suggested 
Joyce. 

The  crew  acted  on  his  advice  and  ap- 
proached the  camp  from  the  woods. 

Just  before  gaining  the  fringe  of  road 
where  pieces,  caissons,  wagons,  and  a  lot  of 
equipment  were  hidden  beneath  newly  cut 
branches,  a  bugle  blasted  out  "Attention!" 

"A  Boche  plane  goin'  over.  That  means 
take  cover,  0.  D.,"  explained  McGee. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  bugle  sounded  recall 

154 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

and  everybody  went  about  their  business  with 
little  ado. 

Jimmy  brought  0.  D.  up  to  Regimental 
Headquarters,  and  by  a  little  stroke  of  army 
diplomacy  got  Sergeant-Major  Creamer  to 
assign  him  to  Battery  C.  Later  he  went  to 
the  captain  with  Jimmy  and  asked  that  0.  D. 
be  assigned  to  the  same  section  as  himself. 

"Put  him  in  your  gun  crew,  if  you  want  to. 
You've  got  to  be  acting  gunner-corporal  now. 
Corporal  Schott  went  to  the  hospital  with 
fever,"  said  the  captain. 

"Trey-beans,"  answered  Jimmy.  "Thanks 
leaucoup." 

"Not  at  all,"  answer  the  C.  0. 

"Great  guy,  our  old  man,"  Jimmy  told  0.  D. 
when  they  got  out  of  the  captain's  hearing. 
"Just  like  one  of  the  fellows  all  the  time.  We 
call  him  Pop  Henderson.  He  knows  it,  too. 
I  believe  you  could  call  him  Pop  to  his  face 
and  he'd  take  it  all  right.  Course  we  don't, 
you  know.  He's  too  good.  Bunch  of  officers 
like  him  in  this  outfit.  There  're  cranks  and 
bums  in  every  profession,  but  our  officers  are 
pretty  much  the  darb.  Get  that  way  after 
bein'  up  at  the  front  with  you  a  long  time, 
you  see." 

11  155 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

1 '  Seemed  mighty  nice, ' '  said  0.  D.  "  Where 
are  we  going  to  sleep  to-night,  Jimmy?" 

"Oh,  we'll  rig  up  our  shelter-halves  and 
cushay  in  the  woods  some  place.  Won't  be  as 
good  as  that  Frog  bed  we  hit  last  night,  but 
say  la  guerre,  you  know  0.  D." 

"I'm  willing,  Jimmy." 

"This  place  is  as  good  as  any,  I  guess," 
said  Jimmy,  examining  the  ground  with  his 
foot.  "There's  a  few  damn  loots  in  the  way, 
but  if  you  get  yourself  wrapped  around  then 
you'll  cushay  bon." 

Jimmy  didn't  try  to  put  the  tent  up  in 
regulation  way.  He  got  a  few  small  branches, 
a  stick  or  two,  and  with  the  poles  that  0.  D. 
had  he  made  a  shelter  that  would  at  least 
keep  some  wind  away  or  afford  protection 
against  rain. 

"I  lost  all  my  pins  and  poles  'round  Cha- 
teau-Thierry," he  said  in  apology  for  using 
his  bayonet  as  a  tent-pin. 

Jimmy  had  two  blankets  and  0.  D.  had  three. 
They  spread  them  all  out  on  the  ground, 
tucked  in  the  end  near  the  opening  of  the 
tent  and  crawled  between  the  blankets,  leav- 
ing two  between  them  and  the  earth. 

"Boll  your  blouse  up  and  use  it  for  a  pil- 
low. Generally  I  use  my  gas-mask,  some- 

156 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

times  my  tin  hat,  for  a  pillow,  if  it's  cold  and 
I'm  alone.  Neil  and  I  used  to  cuslnay  together, 
but  he  can  hang  with  Pop  or  Joyce,  as  he 
knows  how  to  get  along  here." 


XIII 


OD.  turned  restlessly  for  a  long  time 
0  before  he  could  adapt  his  body  to  the 
topography  of  the  ground  that  was  his  bed. 
He  had  funny  feelings  in  his  joints  as  if  some- 
thing was  grinding  against  the  bones,  espe- 
cially when  he  remained  in  one  position  long. 
Jimmy's  snoring  told  him  that  his  new  friend 
was  asleep. 

The  new-comer  to  the  environs  of  the  front 
lay  awake  almost  two  hours.  He  thought  of 
home,  of  his  mother,  of  Mary,  and  of  what  was 
before  him.  Now  and  then  a  distant  rum- 
bling as  if  thunder  was  muttering  in  far-away 
skies  came  to  his  ears. 

Jimmy  had  explained  the  rumbling  as  being 
the  noise  of  guns  that  were  perhaps  twenty 
kilometers  away.  0.  D.  couldn't  put  down 
the  idea  that  he  was  near  the  front,  the  thing 
that  he  had  been  working  toward  since  becom- 
ing a  soldier.  The  idea  gripped  him  so 
strongly  that  he  couldn't  stay  the  restless 
158 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

feelings  which  worked  through  his  veins  fire- 
like. 

He  sat  up,  reached  for  his  shoes,  slipped 
them  on,  and  crawled  out  of  the  tent. 

The  night  was  singularly  clear  for  France. 
A  growing  moon  and  myriad  stars  had  purged 
the  world  of  shadows  and  given  it  a  generous 
possession  of  silver  light.  Except  for  the  soft 
noises  made  by  the  horses  and  the  occasional 
rumble  that  came  from  the  hills  of  Verdun, 
the  night  was  quiet  and  suggestive  of  peace- 
ful repose. 

0.  D.  looked  and  listened  at  the  things  of 
the  night.  A  sentry  strolled  leisurely  along 
the  road  where  the  guns  of  his  regiment  were 
camouflaged.  Far  in  front  of  him  a  chain  of 
golden  rockets  climbed  against  the  horizon 
and  disappeared  as  if  by  magic.  The  thing 
that  0.  D.  had  thought  was  thunder  came  to 
his  ears  again.  Then  all  was  so  quiet  that  he 
could  hear  Jimmy  sleeping. 

"I'm  almost  at  the  front,"  soliloquized  the 
man  to  himself.  "No  one  else  seems  to  know 
it,  or  feel  it,  but  me.  Guess  I  better  try  to 
sleep."  He  turned  to  go  back  in  the  pup 
tent. 

A  soft,  subdued  thing  like  the  drone  of  a 
bee  rose  and  fell  on  the  night  air.  0.  D. 

159 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

jumped  forward  a  trifle,  startled  by  the  sin- 
ister beelike  noise  that  seemed  almost  over- 
head. 

Eat-tat-tat-tat !  B-o-o-m!  B-o-o-m!  Bat- 
tat-tat-tat! 

The  peace  of  the  night  ended  in  the  fierce 
barking  of  machine-guns  and  the  crash  of  anti- 
air-craft  cannon.  Between  shots,  the  soft 
droning  that  came  from  the  skies  continued 
in  a  casual,  business-like  way  that  caused  cold 
perspiration  to  come  unbidden  to  0.  D.'s  fore- 
head. 

B— A— N— G! 

A  bomb  exploded  about  four  hundred  yards 
from  where  0.  D.  stood,  and  the  ground  quiv- 
ered beneath  him. 

The  sound  of  waking  men  stirred  him  to 
speak. 

"What What  is  it ?"  he  asked. 

"Nothin5  but  a  Boche  plane  droppin* 
bombs.  They're  goin*  at  him  with  the  archies, 
but  might  just  as  well  use  pea-shooters.  Never 
get  a  plane  with  that  stuff,"  came  the  answer 
from  a  dark  part  of  the  woods. 

W-h-i-r-r! 

Something  was  passing  directly  overhead. 
O.  D.  looked  up.  He  saw  a  black  shadow  flit 
between  himself  and  the  moon.  Then  another 

160 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

bomb  exploded.  0.  D.  dived  into  the  tent.  He 
landed  on  Jimmy. 

"What  the  hell's  up?"  asked  Jimmy,  com- 
ing out  of  sleep. 

"Listen,"  whispered  0.  D.  in  a  hoarse 
voice. 

Jimmy  listened. 

"Nothin'  but  some  Boche  planes,  I  guess. 
They'll  never  get  us,  but  I  hate  'em  just  the 
same.  Turn  over  and  let's  cushay  encore." 

0.  D.  lay  down  again,  but  did  not  sleep  until 
the  droning  had  ceased  and  the  guns  had 
become  quiet.  Fatigue  finally  overpowered  his 
senses  and  he  fell  into  deep  slumber. 

"Wake  up,  0.  D.  Time  to  monjay." 
Jimmy,  fully  dressed,  was  bending  over  O.  D. 

"What Oh—  Time  to  get  up  and 

eat,  eh?  What  have  they  got  for  breakfast, 
Jimmy?" 

"Bacon,  hardtack,  and  coffee.  The  coffee's 
got  sugar  in  it  for  a  wonder.  Make  it  fast  or 
we'll  get  nothin'  but  seconds." 

Sitting  bolt  upright  in  the  little  tent,  O.  D. 
took  account  of  the  fact  that  Jimmy  was 
all  ready  and  showed  signs  of  having  been  up 
some  time. 

"You  have  been  up   and  around,  Jimmy; 

161 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

why  didn't  you  wake  me  up  before?'*  asked 
O.  D. 

"What's  the  use?  You'll  get  enough  early 
rising  before  you're  through  with  this  outfit. 
Might  as  well  beat  the  army  out  of  a  little 
sleep  when  you  can.  When  you  come  down 
to  brass  tacks  about  it,  every  time  you  cushay 
late  and  monjay  a  lot  you're  makin'  yourself 
stronger  and  a  better  man  for  the  army  work. 
Cushay  all  you  can,  0.  D.  We  had  to  get  up 
at  six  and  feed  them  soft-headed  horses  and 
bring  'em  down  to  a  little  lake  to  water.  Come 
on  if  you're  set  and  we'll  beat  it  up  to  the 
mess-line." 

0.  D.  and  Jimmy,  mess-kits  and  cups  in 
hand,  found  their  way  through  the  woods  to 
the  long  line  of  hungry  men  that  extended 
from  the  smoking,  rolling  kitchen  to  a  point 
almost  one  hundred  yards  away. 

O.  D.  had  never  looked  upon  such  a  motley 
group  of  American  soldiers  since  entering  the 
army.  Most  of  the  boys  were  in  their  shirt- 
sleeves. Some  wore  leggings  and  some  did 
not.  Half  of  them  did  not  have  caps  or  hats 
on.  They  were  all  mud-splashed.  Everybody 
was  either  talking  or  laughing. 

"When  are  we  goin'  to  eat?"  asked  one 
man  near  the  end  of  the  line.  A  rattle  of 

162 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

mess-kits  followed  that  question,  and  soon  the 
entire  mess-line  began  to  bawl  out  the  cooks 
and  kitchen  police  in  general. 

"Look  at  the  ears  on  him!"  shouted  a  Yank. 
A  chorus  of  laughs  followed. 

0.  D.,  falling  in  line  behind  Jimmy,  heard 
that  remark  and  turned  red  in  the  face. 

"Why  did  he  say  that,  Jimmy?  Are  my 
ears  big,  or  what0?"  he  asked. 

Jimmy  laughed. 

"They're  not  talkin'  'bout  you,  0.  D.  That's 
just  a  sayin'  in  this  man's  army  which  is  more 
popular  'round  mess-time  than  any  other. 
Don't  worry  'bout  these  guys  gettin*  fresh 
with  you,"  answered  Jimmy. 

The  top-sergeant  stopped  Jimmy  and  0.  D. 
as  they  were  making  their  way  back  from 
mess. 

"Say,  Jimmy,  is  this  the  new  guy?"  asked 
the  top,  indicating  0.  D. 

"Oui.  Pop  Henderson  said  I  could  get  him 
in  my  crew." 

"Trey-beans.  You'll  fix  him  up,  then.  Have 
you  had  any  time  on  the  guns?"  he  asked 
O.  D. 

"No.    I  was  in  the  infantry." 

"What  about  that,  Jimmy?" 

"I'll  show  him  'round  that  baby  of  ours. 
163 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

He  don't  need  no  trainin'  for  the  job  I'm  goin' 
to  give  him,"  declared  McGee. 

"Well,  be  good  to  him.  Luck  to  you,  old 
man,"  and  the  top  hurried  away  to  scare  up 
some  details  for  grooming  the  horses. 

"We  pull  up  to-night,  0.  D. — not  right  into 
the  front,  you  know.  About  three  kiloflappers 
from  where  our  positions  will  be.  So  I  want 
to  get  down  to  the  piece  and  look  her  over. 
Got  to  get  Betsy  in  great  shape  for  this 
drive.  We're  goin'  to  take  Metz.  You  heard 
that,  didn't  you?" 

"Yes,  but  I  thought  Metz  was  the  Ger- 
man's stronghold  and  a  long  ways  off," 
answered  0.  D. 

"Oui.  What  of  it?  We'll  take  it  all  right. 
Wait  till  this  old  Yankee  army  gets  loose  at 
'em."  Jimmy  spoke  with  a  confidence  which 
0.  D.  hadn't  yet  learned  to  grasp. 

The  day  was  spent  by  Jimmy  in  cleaning 
and  getting  Betsy,  his  faithful  Schneider  how- 
itzer of  155-millimeter  range,  in  condition  for 
the  work  that  was  in  store  for  it.  0.  D.  got  a 
chance  to  familiarize  his  fingers  and  sight  with 
the  parts  that  were  henceforth  to  engage  his 
attention  while  a  member  of  Jimmy  McGee 's 
gun  crew. 

A  few  minutes  before  supper  final  moving 

164 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

orders  were  announced.  The  regiment  was  to 
hike  twenty-four  kilometers  and  camouflage  in 
a  woody  valley  near  Eupt-en-Woevre. 

Jimmy,  standing  around  with  O.  D.  and 
Neil,  hearing  the  orders,  remarked. 

"Can  you  imagine  this  stuff  back  in  the 
States?  Suppose  a  guy  blew  in  your  office 
just  before  supper  and  told  you  to  grab  your 
typewriter  and  hike  eighteen  miles  or  so. 
Why,  man,  you'd  throw  him  down  ten  flights 
of  stairs.  Over  here  they  tell  you  to  load  up 
with  a  hundred  pounds  of  junk  and  hike 
twenty-odd  kilometers,  and  you  do  it  like  you 
was  goin'  off  to  a  dance.  Don't  know  what 
the  hell  we'll  do  when  we  do  get  back." 


XIV 


AFTER  the  usual  amount  of  orders  and 
rescinding  of  orders  had  been  accom- 
plished the  regiment  was  lined  up  in  a  col- 
umn of  three  battalions  and  awaited  the  com- 
mand "forward." 

Just  as  the  sun  fell  behind  the  green  hills  of 
Verdun  and  the  shadows  of  night  began  to 
fill  the  valleys  a  long  column  of  American 
artillery  started  rolling  toward  the  lines  of 
the  St.  Mihiel  sector.  Jimmy  McGee  and 
William  G.  Preston,  alias  0.  D.,  loaded  down 
under  their  equipment  and  carrying  canes, 
followed  behind  Betsy,  the  third  piece  of  Bat- 
tery C,  humming  the  chorus  of  "Where  Do 
We  Go  from  Here,  Boys?" 

It  was  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  the 
regiment  reached  its  rendezvous  in  a  wooded 
valley  near  Eupt-en-Woevre.  The  sky  had 
become  clouded  and  the  early  morning  was 
jet  black. 

'"Guess   we'll   get   soaked,    0.   D.,"    pro- 

166 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

phesied  Jimmy  when  they  halted  and  got  a 
chance  to  observe  the  weather  conditions. 

"Will  we  stay  here  now!"  asked  0.  D. 

"Oui.  Might  just  as  well  scare  up  a  place 
to  cusliay.  Wait  here;  I'll  look  'round." 

A  little  while  later  Jimmy  returned  with 
the  news  that  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  put 
the  pup  tent  up  again  and  sleep  on  the  ground. 

' '  There 's  one  barrack  here,  but  the  First  Bat- 
talion guys  grabbed  that  as  they  got  here 
first,"  he  explained. 

Jimmy  and  0.  D.  put  the  tent  up  on  the 
slope  of  a  hill  that  formed  the  eastern  side 
of  the  valley  in  which  the  horses  and  ma- 
teriel  of  the  entire  regiment  were  hidden. 

0.  D.  heard,  in  a  sort  of  indifferent  man- 
mer,  the  growl  of  big  guns  that  seemed  very 
near.  He  was  startled  once  or  twice  by  the 
crash  of  bombs  and  the  anti-air-craft  guns. 
But  he  was  too  tired  to  lend  ears  and  thoughts 
to  such  things  on  his  first  night  at  the  front, 
for  the  regiment  was  only  a  few  kilometers 
from  the  first  lines.  0.  D.  fell  asleep  imme- 
diately and  didn't  wake  until  three  hours  later 
when  a  downpour  of  rain  splashed  him  from 
head  to  foot. 

The  wind  that  accompanied  the  rain  swept 
the  tent  away  time  and  time  again.  Every- 

167 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

thing  that  Jimmy  and  0.  D.  owned  got  soaked. 
The  earth  beneath  them  turned  into  crawling 
slime  Finally,  seeing  the  impossibility  of 
keeping  the  tent  up,  Jimmy  told  his  friend  to 
pull  his  shelter-half  over  him,  head  and  all. 
Jimmy  did  likewise  with  his  shelter-half  and 
blankets.  The  two  boys,  wrapped  in  canvas 
and  blankets,  lay  in  the  deluge  like  two  muf- 
fled mummies,  trying  to  sleep. 

Instead  of  moving  into  position  at  once  the 
regiment  made  at  least  fifty  final  preparations 
to  do  so,  only  to  be  ordered  to  remain  in  the 
valley  for  further  orders. 

Four  days  passed.  Rain  fell  incessantly. 
The  bottom  of  the  valley  became  as  slippery 
as  glass.  Men  bogged  up  to  their  knees  in 
mud.  There  were  no  boots.  The  mess  was 
a  succession  of  "corned  willy,"  hardtack,  and 
sugarless  coffee  meals. 

At  last,  when  every  man  and  officer  had 
reached  the  point  of  absolute  disgust,  the 
guns  were  dragged  out  of  their  mud-holes  and 
hauled  by  horse  and  man  power  to  the  posi- 
tions from  which  they  were  scheduled  to 
launch  their  part  of  the  drive. 

Passing  through  the  shell-torn  village  of 
Rupt-en-Woevre,  the  Second  Battalion,  of 
which  Jimmy's  battery  was  a  part,  swerved 
168 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

off  the  main  road  and  followed  a  woods  trail 
that  seemed  to  lead  straight  into  the  noises 
and  strange,  mysterious  lights  of  the  front. 

A  gun  barked  out,  not  forty  feet  from  the 
road.  0.  D.  looked  to  Jimmy. 

"Are  we  at  the  front  now  Jimmy V9  he 
asked  in  a  whisper. 

" Don't  know  myself.  Guess  there's  a  bat- 
tery in  the  woods  near  here.  We'll  be  there 
soon  now." 

The  firing  was  not  very  heavy  that  night. 
Occasionally  a  big  gun  spoke  or  the  staccato 
voices  of  machine-guns  stabbed  the  night  air 
intermittenly.  Flares  and  rockets  went  up 
frequently,  causing  the  darkness  of  the  woods 
that  bordered  the  road  to  accentuate.  0.  D. 
owned  some  strange,  indescribable  feelings  at 
times,  but  he  could  not  identify  any  of  them 
as  the  sensations  which  he  had  expected  to 
experience  upon  his  first  intimacy  with  the 
things  of  the  front. 

The  column  halted  at  a  crossroad.  Orders 
to  dismount  came  quickly  and  were  repeated 
down  the  line  of  guns  in  ordinary  tones.  Be- 
fore O.  D.  had  a  chance  to  ask  what  was  go- 
ing on  platoon  commanders  had  issued  in- 
structions for  the  piece  teams  to  haul  the 
guns  into  certain  positions  nearby. 

1G9 


WHAT. OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

""Well,  we're  here."  'Now  for  the  business," 
declared  Jimmy. 

"You  mean  we  are  at  the  front,"  gasped 
0.  D.,  incredulously.  "I  thought — " 

"Sure,  we  all  thought  the  same  thing  when 
we  came  up  the  first  time.  Looked  for  sign- 
posts savin',  'This  is  the  front,'  or  a  bunch 
of  Germans  tryin'  to  get  us.  Just  like  that 
No-Man 's-Land  stuff.  I'd  heard  so  much 
about  that  place  before  comin*  to  France  that 
I  thought  it  would  be  as  easy  to  find  as  a 
piece  of  choice  real  estate.  Kinda  expected 
that  it  would  be  a  square  field,  or  some  thin' 
like  that,  between  two  story-book  trenches. 
First  No  Man's  Land  I  ran  into  was  in  the 
middle  of  a  village.  Graveyard  and  church 
made  most  of  it.  The  front's  built  on  the 
same  idea." 

Jimmy  selected  a  spot  near  the  third  piece 
and  arranged  a  place  for  himself  and  0.  D. 
Before  0.  D.  fell  asleep  he  mentioned  that 
he  wanted  to  write  some  letters  to  his  mother 
and  Mary. 

At  the  sound  of  Mary's  name  Jimmy  in- 
stinctively ran  his  hand  over  his  breast  pocket 
to  see  if  the  picture  was  still  there.  It  was. 

"You  can  write  to-morrow,  0.  D." 

"I  can?"  said  0.  D.    "I  thought  it  would  be 

170 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

pretty  hard  to  get  a  chance  to  write  at  the 
front." 

" That's  what  most  of  the  guys  spend  their 
time  doin'  when  there  ain't  no  firin'  or  work," 
assured  Jimmy. 

"Well,  good  night,  old  man." 

"Bon  swoir,  0.  D." 

The  mention  of  Mary  made  Jimmy  forget 
about  sleeping.  Since  the  night  that  he  had 
spent  in  the  French  house  with  0.  D.  he  had 
been  day-dreaming  whenever  the  chance  to  do 
so  came.  He  wondered  if  Mary  was  in  love 
with  somebody  back  in  America  or  in  France. 
That  idea  disquieted  him  a  great  deal,  but 
judging  from  0.  D.'s  conversations,  he  felt  at 
liberty  to  hope  that  her  heart  was  still  free. 

When  he  was  sure  that  0.  D.  was  sound 
asleep  Jimmy  lit  a  cigarette  and  took  Mary's 
picture  out  of  his  pocket.  By  drawing  hard 
on  the  cigarette  he  caused  a  fire  glow  that 
was  enough  to  enable  him  to  catch  glimpses 
of  her  face. 

"Gosh!  She's  a  pretty,  slender  somebody," 
mused  the  Yank  to  himself.  "Bet  she's  as 
sweet  as  she  looks.  It'll  be  great  gettin'  let- 
ters from  her.  If  I  make  this  old  guerre  I'm 
sure  goin'  to  know  Mary  0.  D.  But  I'm  a  nut. 
What  business  have  I  got  thinkin'  that  she'll 

12  171 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

even  look  at  a  bum  like  me?  I'd  disgrace  her 
most  likely  in  public,  'specially  at  a  dinner- 
table,  as  I'd  forget  and  use  the  old  knife.  Got 
to  put  the  brakes  on  this  cussin'  stuff,  too.  I 
can  imagine  her  if  I  said  'damn*  in  front  of 
her.  I'd  be  fineed  toot  sweet."  Jimmy  put 
the  picture  away  and  puffed  on  while  his 
dreams  mingled  with  his  blue  cigarette 
smoke. 


XV 


PINCHING    OFF    THE    ST.    MIHIEL    SALIENT 

BY  noon  of  the  next  day  Battery  C's  guns 
had  all  been  securely  emplaced.     0.  D. 
wrote  three  letters  in  the    morning,    all    of 
which  centered  around  Jimmy  McGee  and  the 
front.    In  his  letter  to  Mary  he  said,  in  part: 

You'll  love  Jimmy,  he's  so  big  and 
kind.  If  he  ever  got  all  cleaned  and 
dressed  he'd  sure  be  handsome,  but  the 
boys  don't  have  time  for  that  kind  of  life 
up  here. 

Mary,  Jimmy  never  gets  any  letters, 
except  from  a  few  boys  that  work  where 
he  used  to.  His  folks  are  all  dead.  I  told 
him  that  you  would  write  to  him.  He  is 
sending  you  a  German  officer's  helmet 
that  he  took  from  a  German  at  Chateau- 
Thierry.  You  see,  Jimmy  has  been  at 
the  front  for  a  long  time. 

I  am  at  the  front  with  him  now.  But, 
somehow,  I  don't  feel  like  I  thought  I 
would.  It  doesn't  seem  so  terribly  dif- 

173 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

ferent  from  a  place  that  we  stopped  at 
about  twenty  miles  from  here.  Of  course 
the  guns  make  a  lot  of  noise  when  they  go 
off  and  there's  all  kinds  of  mysterious 
lights  at  night  that  make  you  think  of 
ghosts  at  work.  But  the  airplanes  and 
bombs  are  what  scare  me  most.  .  .  . 

Before  supper  was  served  on  the  after- 
noon of  September  llth  the  guns  of  Jim- 
my McGee's  regiment  had  registered  on  their 
targets  and  everything  was  in  readiness  to 
participate  in  the  greatest  effort  that  the 
First  American  Army  was  destined  to  make 
on  the  fields  of  France. 

That  night  there  were  no  certain  indica- 
tions that  the  drive  would  start  immediately. 
The  ordinary  precautions  were  taken.  But 
they  alone  did  not  suggest  to  the  men  that 
something  big  was  about  to  happen.  Yet, 
in  the  blood  of  them  all,  a  fever  was  present 
which  brought  its  presentiments. 

"0.  D.,  I  got  a  hunch.  Nothin'  certain  in 
this  guerre,  you  know.  But  I've  got  a  feelin* 
in  my  fingers  that  we're  goin'  to  use  old 
Betsy  to-night, "  spoke  Jimmy. 

" Jimmy — Jimmy."     Neil  was  calling  him. 

"Oui.     What's  up?" 

174 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

"How  do  things  look  to  you?"  asked  Neil, 
crawling  in  the  little  shelter  tent. 

"I  was  just  sayin'  to  0.  D.  that  IVe  got 
a  hunch — just  like  the  one  before  the  battle 
of  Seicheprey — that  some  thin'  is  goin'  to 
come  off.  Mighty  damn  quiet,  though.  But 
it's  always  that  way  before  a  real  racket." 

"What  time  have  you  got,  0.  DJ"  asked 
Neil. 

"Darn  near  midnight.  Jimmy  and  I  have 
been  sittin'  around  talking  a  good  deal.  What 
are  you  doing  up?" 

"I'm  on  guard  to-night." 

The  shrill  blast  of  a  pocket  whistle  inter- 
rupted him  and  caused  the  three  of  them  to 
jump  a  little. 

"'Callin'  to  the  guns,,  boys,"  whispered 
Jimmy.  "I  knew  some  thin*  was  in  the  wind. 
Get  ready,  0.  D." 

"I've  got  to  beat  it,  then,"  said  Neil,  get- 
ting out. 

In  a  few  seconds  Jimmy  and  0.  D.  were 
running  toward  their  gun-pit.  Soon  after- 
ward the  other  members  of  the  crew  were  at 
their  stations. 

Just  as  the  executive  officer  was  giving 
out  the  firing  data  the  world  seemed  caught 
in  the  vortex  of  a  terrible  electrical  storm. 
175 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

Up  in  front  of  Battery  C's  position  a  barrage 
from  the  seventy-five's  crashed  into  life.  Big 
guns  away  behind  the  position  began  to  bay. 

Jimmy  got  orders  to  fire.  The  darkness  of 
night  was  lost  in  blinding  flashes  of  yellow 
flames  that  came  from  the  thundering  guns. 
Shells  whined  and  whistled  on  their  way 
toward  the  German  trenches  and  positions. 
0.  D.  rammed  the  shells  home,  wondering  if 
the  world  was  coming  to  an  end.  The  roar 
of  the  pieces,  the  rattle  of  machine-guns,  the 
earth  that  quivered  beneath  him  and  the  skies 
that  seemed  to  be  blazing  with  varicolored 
fires  assailed  his  ears,  his  eyes,  and  his  soul 
with  a  violence  that  he  had  never  dreamed  of. 
He  looked  to  Jimmy  for  confidence.  Jimmy 
was  working  his  sights  and  traversing  the 
piece  as  if  he  were  listening  to  a  jazz  victrola 
record.  O.  D.  bit  his  lips.  He  knew  that  one 
of  his  real  trials  was  at  hand. 

The  din  of  battle  became  a  unison  of  wild, 
barbaric  music.  Out  where  the  doughboys 
were  going  over,  under  the  barrages,  rockets 
crawled  against  the  livid  heavens.  0.  D. 
thought  of  dragons  and  unearthly  monsters 
as  he  watched  these  things. 

The  scream  of  a  shell,  more  sinister  than 

176 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

the  rest,  caused  O.  D.'s  hair  to  stand  up 
straight. 

"That  one's  comin'  in,"  bawled  out  Jimmy. 

Another  shell  whistled  in  the  same  fashion. 

B— A— N— G! 

The  sound  of  an  explosion  new  to  the  ears 
of  0.  D.  throttled  the  vicinity  of  his  piece.  A 
human  cry  made  itself  heard  above  the  angry 
roaring  of  the  guns. 

"Somebody  got  it — poor  guy!"  shouted 
Jimmy.  0.  D.  nodded  and  kept  on  placing 
the  shells  on  the  tray  and  ramming  them  in 
the  smoking  breech. 

For  four  hours  the  battle  storm  raged  in- 
cessantly. During  those  hours  Jimmy's  gun 
crew  worked  away  with  straining  muscles. 
There  was  no  mental  or  spiritual  strain  at- 
tached to  their  labor.  They  were  hardened  to 
the  unnatural  sounds  and  sights  of  modern 
fighting.  But  0.  D.,  new  to  the  things  of  big 
action,  face  to  face  with  the  relentless  fury  of 
war  for  the  first  time,  had  to  contend  with 
both  the  physical  and  spiritual  conditions 
which  presented  themselves.  He  was  natur- 
ally strong;  but  four  hours  of  work,  under 
stress  of  fighting,  made  his  arms  and  back 
feel  as  if  they  were  breaking.  No  man,  how- 
ever iron  of  will  and  nerves,  can  go  through 
177 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

his  first  battle  without  some  demoralization 
of  his  mental  forces.  0.  D.  was  only  an  or- 
dinary boy.  Naturally  he  suffered  his  share 
of  spiritual  anguish  in  the  trying  moments  of 
competition  for  the  control  of  his  soul  powers 
before  the  onslaught  of  terrors  that  threat- 
ened to  smash  his  nerve  and  courage. 

When  orders  to  cease  firing  came  0.  D. 
was  tired  and  a  bit  wan.  But  he  had  found 
himself.  That  alone  counted  with  him.  A 
few  moments  later,  when  Jimmy  asked  him 
how  he  liked  it,  0.  D.  found  himself  answer- 
ing: 

"It  kind  of  got  me  at  first — especially 
wihen  that  wounded  man  cried  out.  But 
when  I  didn't  stop  to  think,  and  kept  on  work- 
ing, I  didn't  mind  it  so  much. 

"That's  the  stuff.  Now  you've  heard  all 
the  noise  that  they  can  make  in  this  war,  so 
you're  done  with  that  experience.  The  rest 
of  the  stuff  is  only  incidental-like,"  said  Jim- 
my. "Course  somebody's  got  to  get  killed 
or  wounded.  There  wouldn't  be  no  war  if  that 
didn't  happen.  But  it  won't  be  us.  It's 
always  the  other  guy.  Compree?" 

"Oui,"  answered  0.  D. 

"Get  yourself  together,  boys,  we're  pullin' 
right  out.  0.  P.'s  report  that  the  Germans 
178 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

are  hauling  it  fast.  Hardly  any  resistance. 
Beaucoup  prisoners  comin'  in.  Thousands, 
they  say.  The  old  doughboys  are  goin'  like 
hell,"  shouted  Neil,  running  up  to  0.  D.  and 
Jimmy. 

"That's  the  old  pep.  Come  on,  0.  D.,  we're 
off  to  another  fight,"  and  Jimmy  started  on 
the  run  for  the  tent. 

The  first  few  sharp  points  of  dawn  were 
piercing  the  haze  of  early  morning  as  Jim- 
my, 0.  D.,  and  the  rest  of  the  outfit  started 
across  the  decaying  stretch  of  land  southeast 
of  wrecked  Mouilly.  For  four  long  years  the 
ground  that  the  Yankees  trampled  underfoot 
had  been  the  No  Man's  Land  between  the 
German  and  French  lines.  There  was  no  real 
road,  just  a  winding  succession  of  shell-holes 
and  gaping  craters,  bordered  on  one  side  by 
a  water-filled  trench  that  had  been  the  late 
target  of  American  guns.  On  the  other  side 
of  the  ruined  road  stretched  a  bumpy,  chaotic 
plain,  out  of  which  the  snags  of  shell-smashed 
trees  lifted  jagged  points  and  shattered  limbs. 
Rusty  barbed  wire  was  strung  in  baffling 
tangles  from  every  charred  stump  and  smok- 
ing post.  Demolished  guns,  rifles,  bayonets, 
and  sundry  articles  of  equipment  were  lit- 

179 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

tered  over  the  grim  terrain.  Gray  desolation, 
destruction,  and  barrenness  abounded. 

"This  is  what  they  call  the  Grande 
Tranchee,  0.  D.  Never  seen  anything  like 
this,  even  in  the  movin'  pictures,  did  you!" 
questioned  Jimmy. 

0.  D.'s  eyes  were  fastened  on  a  gruesome 
heap  of  headless  men  whose  bodies  were  torn, 
twisted,  and  partly  covered  by  debris.  He 
shuddered  before  answering. 

"No,  Jimmy.  Look  down  there, "  pointing 
to  the  dead. 

"Oui,  Bodies,"  responded  Jimmy,  casually. 
"Sure  tore  up  this  place  some.  Our  old 
Betsy  was  landin'  'em  down  here.  Ain't 
nothin'  over  three  feet  high  'round  here.'* 

A  long  column  of  German  prisoners  filed 
by  under  guard  of  American  doughboys. 

"What  outfit,  buddy?"  asked  Jimmy  of  a 
guard. 

"First  Division,"  answered  the  man. 

"Seen  much  of  the  Twenty-sixth  dough- 
boys?" questioned  Jimmy. 

"Oui,  they  beat  us  into  Vigunelles.  Those 
guys  sure  bagged  some  Boches,"  and  the 
guard  picked  up  a  faster  step  with  his  pris- 
oners. 

The  attack  was  still  in  force  and  shells  were 

180 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

plowing  up  the  broken  ground  in  every  direc- 
tion when  the  battery  arrived  opposite  a  Ger- 
man cemetery.  Orders  were  received  at  that 
point  for  the  regiment  to  go  into  position  be- 
hind the  hills  of  St.  Kemy.  The  tired  and 
worn  columns  entered  the  woods  by  a  road 
that  had  been  used  by  the  Germans  only  the 
day  before. 

"The  Boches  must  have  thought  that  they 
was  here  to  stay,  by  the  looks  of  this  joint," 
said  Jimmy,  pointing  to  the  graveyard  with 
its  high  stone  fence  and  tall  tombstones. 
''The  Boches  got  in  here  four  years  ago  and 
never  moved  till  last  night.  That  accounts 
for  all  this  stuff.  Guess  they  had  regular 
funerals  and  church  services  for  the  guys 
that  got  knocked  off.  Just  goes  to  show  how 
they  was  fightin'  the  guerre  up  here.  Livin' 
the  life  of  Riley  and  didn't  know  it." 

He  and  0.  D.  climbed  over  the  fence  and 
inspected  some  of  the  tombstones.  They 
came  to  an  exceptionally  big  one. 

"Guess  this  gink  must  have  been  a  gen- 
eral. Can't  read  Boche,  but  most  likely  all 
the  stuff  reads,  'He  died  for  God  and  Coun- 
try.' See  that  'Gott'  business  on  'em  all. 
Everybody  pulls  the  same  line  when  a  guy 
gets  killed.  Funny  thing,  but  there  ain't  many 

181 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

shell-holes  in  cemeteries.  Now  and  then  you 
see  one  all  turned  upside  down  from  shell- 
fire.  But  most  of  'em  that  I've  seen  get  by 
somehow.  Maybe  the  shells  get  supersti- 
tious." 

" There  is  where  one  shell  hit."  0.  D. 
showed  Jimmy  a  grave  that  had  been  dug 
out  by  a  shell. 

"Qui.  Even  the  dead  don't  get  no  rest  in 
this  guerre,"  declared  Jimmy. 

The  whine  of  an  incoming  shell  caused  them 
both  to  fall  flat  on  their  bellies.  An  explo- 
sion followed.  Dirt  and  stones  covered  them 
from  head  to  foot. 

"Beat  it  toot  sweet.  This  joint  ain't  no 
place  for  a  live  man,  O.  D.,"  and  Jimmy 
started  for  the  wall  at  double-time.  They 
caught  up  with  the  battery  a  few  minutes 
before  the  order  to  halt  came. 

"We're  goin'  to  use  an  old  German  posi- 
tion here,"  said  Neil,  coming  up  to  Jimmy. 
"You  never  saw  such  stuff  in  your  life.  The 
Boches  have  got  dug-outs  fifty  feet  deep. 
Regular  places,  beds,  sofas,  everything. 
You'd  think  they  had  bought  the  place  for  a 
resort. 

"That's  nothinV  broke  in  Pop  Eigney. 
"Down  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  in  Hattonville 

182 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

they've  got  regular  theaters  built  up.  Boche 
cafes.  They  say  Boche  women  used  to  live 
here  with  the  officers.  Joyce  found  some  silk 
stockings  and  a  woman's  hat  in  one  dug-out." 

Jimmy  and  O.  D.  went  on  an  exploration 
tour  immediately.  They  found  that  the  dug- 
outs were  all  built  of  cement  and  stone  and 
must  have  necessitated  months  in  construc- 
tion. A  piano,  all  smashed  up,  was  found  in 
one.  There  were  various  kinds  of  mysterious 
cords  and  wires  in  most  of  the  abris.  0.  D. 
said  that  he  thought  they  must  be  attached 
to  bells,  but  Jimmy  warned  him  that  the 
Boches  had  most  likely  left  them  tied  to  some 
kind  of  death-dealing  engine  and  to  keep  his 
hands  off.  That  same  day  a  member  of  the 
outfit  tampered  with  a  string  and  had  his 
left  hand  mangled  by  a  hand  grenade  which 
fell  to  the  stone  floor  as  a  result  and  exploded 
on  contact. 

The  Germans  had  fled  so  precipitately 
from  their  positions  that  they  even  left  all 
the  guns  behind  them.  The  men  found  sou- 
venirs galore,  but  threw  most  of  them  away, 
as  they  had  no  means  of  carting  around  extra 
stuff. 

"I'm  off  tLe  souvenir  stuff.  I'll  be  good 
enough  souvenir  if  I  get  myself  back,"  said 
183 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

Jimmy  as  he  discarded  some  German  belts 
that  he  had  picked  up. 

" Guess  we'll  get  back  and  monjay.  'Ain't 
had  any  breakfast  yet,  you  know,"  suggested 
Neil. 

In  the  mess-line  the  talk  was  running  fast. 
Samson  and  Johnson,  who  had  been  up  in 
the  O.  P.'s  with  the  doughboys  and  had  just 
returned  to  the  outfit,  told  about  the  capture 
of  St.  Mihiel  and  the  speed  with  which  the 
Boches  were  evacuating  the  salient. 

"We're  in  a  heU  of  a  fix,  though,"  said 
Samson.  Can't  move  another  inch  forward. 
There's  a  plain  twenty  kilometers  deep  in 
front  of  us.  The  Boches  have  got  high 
ground  behind  it  and  we  couldn't  go  across 
it  without  losing  the  whole  division.  Guess 
we'll  have  to  stand  pat  awhile.  Ain't  that 
hell?" 

His  words  panned  out  true.  Before  the 
guns  of  the  Yankee  division  lay  a  great  deep 
plain.  To  send  men  out  into  that  plain  meant 
to  expose  them  to  certain  death  with  no  pos- 
sibility of  a  military  advantage  being  ob- 
tained by  so  doing.  Consequently,  with  the 
exception  of  a  sacrifice  attack  planned  against 
the  enemy  to  divert  his  attention  from  the 
major  operations  being  launched  in  the  Ar- 

184 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

gonne  forest,  the  division  remained  in  its  vic- 
torious tracks  for  nearly  six  weeks.  The  sac- 
rifice attack  succeeded,  but  it  cost  the  division 
almost  the  entire  One  Hundred  and  Second 
Infantry  Regiment. 

During  this  time  0.  D.  drank  to  the  dregs 
of  the  front.  He  became  able  to  distinguish 
the  difference  between  the  whine  of  an  ordi- 
nary shell  and  the  whistle  of  a  gas  shell. 
Whizz-bangs  got  to  be  a  part  of  his  vocabu- 
lary, and  he  knew  enough  to  duck  toot  sweet 
when  he  heard  one  coming.  The  mud  stuck 
to  him  as  Neil  told  him  it  would.  He  became 
friendly  with  cooties. 

"Damn  it  all,  Jimmy,"  said  0.  D.  five  weeks 
after  the  St.  Mihiel  salient  had  been  nipped 
off  by  the  pinchers  of  the  First  American 
Army,  "if  they'd  only  lay  off  that  'canned 
willy'  once  in  a  while  this  guerre  wouldn't  be 
half  bad.  Say,  I  lost  my  gas-mask  two  days 
ago,  wonder  if  Joyce  has  got  any  in  yet.  The 
Boches  are  puttin'  gas  over  right  along  now." 

"Hope  the  hell  we  get  up  to  a  regular 
front  again  soon,"  replied  Jimmy,  offering 
O.  D.  a  cigarette.  "Since  Austria  blew  up 
we  ought  to  get  behind  the  Boches  and  push 
'em  right  in  the  Rhine." 


XVI 


BEYOND    VERDUN 

"T  S  this  place  hot  enough  to  suit  you,  Jim- 
/  JL  my?"  asked  0.  D.  as  he  and  Jimmy 
huddled  in  a  water-filled  shell-hole  while  a 
drove  of  barrack  bags  went  skimming  over 
their  heads. 

1  'I'll  say,  oui,"  replied  Jimmy.  "Wish  for 
a  thing  and  you'll  sure  get  it.  Remember 
my  wishing  that  they'd  send  us  to  a  real 
front.  There  ain't  no  camouflage  to  this 
joint.  Listen  to  that  damn  machine-gun 
music,  will  you?*' 

From  the  depths  of  the  Haumont  Bois  is- 
sued the  frenzied  snapping  and  barking  of 
machine-guns  that  contrasted  strangely  with 
the  unending  thunder-roll  of  the  heavy  guns. 

Before  Jimmy  and  his  pal  was  the  pivot 
upon  which  the  German  defenses  in  the 
Argonne  depended.  Upon  that  cemented 
pivot  was  hinged  the  hopes  of  the  German 
High  Command.  If  the  pivot  was  forced 
the  entire  line  of  defenses  that  swung 

186 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

back  and  forth  like  a  red,  intangible  thing 
in  the  depth  of  the  Argonne  woods 
would  be  swept  away  by  the  intrepid 
American  troops.  The  Prussian  militarists 
had  rushed  some  of  their  finest  divisions  in 
front  of  Verdun  to  stay  the  advance  of  Ameri- 
can soldiers  who  had  been  ordered  to  unhinge 
the  pivotal  defense  at  all  costs. 

It  mattered  not  that  companies  and  bat- 
talions were  cut  to  pieces  and  mowed  down 
by  the  hidden  machine-gun  fire  of  the  Ger- 
mans who  held  the  high  ground  and  were 
securely  intrenched.  The  order  was  to  force 
the  pivot.  Jimmy's  division  had  been  or- 
dered to  unhinge  it. 

For  three  weeks  he  and  his  comrades  had 
advanced  yard  by  yard,  each  yard  calling 
for  the  sacrifice  of  many  brave  men.  After 
the  third  day  in  the  lines  beyond  Verdun 
Jimmy  had  looked  for  his  friend  Neil,  to 
learn  that  an  ugly  shell  wound  had  sent  him 
to  the  hospital.  An  entire  new  gun  crew  was 
manning  the  first  piece,  as  every  man  had 
been  killed  or  wounded  when  a  German  two- 
hundred-and-twenty  made  a  direct  hit  on  the 
howitzer.  The  Boches  had  been  using  gas 
with  deadly  effect.  Ten  men  that  he  knew 
very  well  had  been  caught  by  the  poisonous 

13  187 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

fumes  and  were  evacuated  to  a  hospital. 
Death  had  come  pretty  close  to  both  Jimmy 
and  0.  D.,  but  by  some  law  of  destiny  they 
had  come  through  unscratched. 

"We  might  try  to  get  back  now,  O.  D." 
Jimmy  raised  himself  cautiously  and  scanned 
their  surroundings. 

A  shell  whistled,  almost  in  his  ear.  He 
ducked  down  again. 

"That  drink  of  water  may  cost  us  a  lot  be- 
fore we  get  back.  Gee !  but  I  was  thirsty.  No 
water  in  three  days.  It'll  be  three  more 
before  we  can  pull  this  stunt  again.  Think 
them  damn  Heinies  have  got  us  under  ob- 
servation. Stuff's  comin'  mighty  close. 
They're  breakin'  right  over  by  that  hill."  He 
pointed  to  a  hill  not  a  hundred  yards  away. 
It  was  perforated  by  shell  hits  and  blue  smoke 
was  rising  from  a  dozen  places  where  shells 
had  lately  exploded. 

"Dick  said  we  were  goin'  to  fire  again, 
toot  sweet,  so  we'll  have  to  make  a  dive  for 
it.  You  follow  me,  0.  D." 

Jimmy  squirmed  out  of  the  slimy  hole  and 
crawled  away  in  the  direction  of  his  position. 
0.  D.  followed  behind  at  about  ten  yards' 
interval.  The  condition  of  0.  D.'s  clothing 
made  him  look  like  a  tramp.  His  wrap  put- 

188 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

tees  were  mud-soaked  and  ripped  in  many 
places.  His  breeches  were  as  dirty  as  Jim- 
my's had  ever  been.  He  had  the  front  writ- 
ten all  over  him.  The  guerre  had  stamped 
its  trade-mark  upon  0.  D. 

After  fifteen  minutes  of  snakelike  progress 
Jimmy  and  0.  D.  reached  the  position.  There 
wasn't  a  soul  to  be  seen.  Everybody  and 
everything  lived  below  the  surface  in  those 
terrible  days  and  nights  beyond  Verdun. 

"Let's  get  down  to  the  old  hole  and  lie 
quiet  till  it's  time  to  fire,"  and  Jimmy  crawled 
down  to  what  he  and  O.  D.  called  "the  hole." 

It  was  their  home.  The  boys  had  stretched 
their  canvas  shelter-halves  over  the  top  of  a 
crater  made  by  a  giant  shell.  Underneath 
this  protection  was  their  stock  and  store  of 
worldly  possessions,  which  consisted  of  an  odd 
sock,  a  suit  of  dirty  underclothes,  and  a  little 
box  that  held  a  few  personal  trinkets.  Rain- 
coats, and  what  little  extra  underclothes  they 
once  owned,  had  been  lost  in  the  advance 
from  Verdun. 

Jimmy  got  to  "the  hole"  first. 

"Great  Lord,  0.  D.!  Here's  some  mail. 
Ration  cart  just  brought  it  up  from  the 
echelon.  Guess  it's  all  for  you.  No  here's 
three  for  me,"  he  cried,  excitedly. 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

Mail  it  was.  The  first  that  they  had  seen 
in  nearly  a  month.  Jimmy  had  three  letters 
from  Mary  and  in  one  was  two  pictures. 

''To  hell  with  this  guerre!"  shouted  Jim- 
my, jumping  up. 

"What's  the  matter,  Jimmy!  Get  good 
news  from  some  of  the  boys?"  asked  0.  D. 

"Boys  hell!"  answered  Jimmy.  "They're 
from  Mary — "  then  he  stopped  short  and  felt 
kind  of  foolish. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  0.  D.  "I  knew  Mary 
would  write  if  I  told  her  to.  I've  got  some 
from  her  and  mother." 

The  two  boys  read  their  letters  on  in 
silence.  The  more  that  Jimmy  read  of  Mary's 
letters  the  more  he  was  willing  to  believe  the 
rumors  that  had  been  coming  in  by  radio  that 
the  Germans  might  sign  an  armistice.  In  fact, 
you  could  have  told  Jimmy  almost  anything 
at  that  moment  and  he  would  have  believed 
it.  He  studied  Mary's  new  pictures  with  the 
one  that  he  had  taken  from  0.  D.  0.  D. 
caught  him  in  the  act. 

"Mary  gave  me  one  of  those  seashore  pic- 
tures before  I  left,  but  I  lost  it  some  place 
lately,"  said  0.  D.,  looking  at  the  two  new 
pictures. 

"Yes,  I  guess  you  did,  0.  D,  I  swiped  it 
19Q 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

from  you.  Don't  mind,  do  you,  old  man?  I 
wanted  a  picture  of  Mary." 

"Did  you  take  that  one,  Jimmy f" 

"Oui." 

"Anything  you  do,  old  boy,  is  0.  K.  with 
me.  You  know  that,  Jimmy,  don't  you?" 
asked  the  brother  of  Mary. 

"Bet  I  do,  0.  D.  Funny  how  guys  get  to 
be  pals  up  here,  ain't  it!  Back  in  the  States 
you  and  me  would  have  passed  each  other  up, 
most  likely.  Out  here  it's  mighty  darn  dif- 
ferent. Makes  a  fellow  get  down  under  the 
skin  of  things.  I  feel  like  I've  known  you 
all  my  life,  0.  D." 

"So  do  I,  Jimmy.  I  never  knew  any  fel- 
low as  good  as  I've  come  to  know  you." 

"Well,  when  men  get  close  to  dyin'  with 
each  other,  when  they've  starved  side  by  side 
and  damn  near  froze  to  death  under  the  same 
pieces  of  cheesecloth,  it  ain't  any  wonder 
that  they  find  out  who  and  what  each  other 
is.  Do  you  know,  it's  gettin*  colder  every 
night!  We've  got  to  rustle  up  some  more 
coverin*  soon  or  we'll  pass  out  one  of  these 
nights.  It's  that  cold  mud  underneath  us  that 
puts  ice  in  the  bones.  Look  here,  0.  D.,  don't 
you  wake  up  in  the  night  no  more  and  listen 
to  me  talk  in  my  sleep  'bout  cold  and  put  your 

191 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

coat  over  me.  Keep  it  on  your  side.  I'm 
more  used  to  this  stuff  than  you,"  commanded 
Jimmy. 

"I  wasn't  cold,  Jimmy,  honest.  Think  I'll 
turn  over  and  cushay  a  while.  We  'ain't  slept 
in  forty-eight  hours  now.  There  won't  be  any- 
thing to  monjay  tonight;  stuff  got  in  too  late 
for  supper.  Goin'  to  give  us  some  coffee  and 
stuff  'round  nine  o'clock." 

"Well,  we'll  both  crawl  in  and  knock  out 
some  sleep,"  said  Jimmy,  and  they  got  under 
their  thin  dirt-spattered  blankets  and  fell  into 
sound  slumber  with  no  effort. 

Three  hours  later  Jimmy  and  0.  D.  were 
throttled  out  of  their  sleep  by  the  banging 
of  incoming  shells  and  the  quaking  of  earth 
that  shivered  and  shook  as  the  shells  ripped 
great  smoking  holes  in  its  sides. 

Between  the  bangs  and  the  crashes  they 
caught  the  piping  of  the  whistle  that  called 
them  to  the  pits.  Twenty  seconds  later  Ser- 
geant Dick  Dennis,  chief  of  Jimmy's  gun  sec- 
tion, sang  out  to  the  executive  officer,  "Third 
section  in  order,  sir." 

"Battery — On  basic  deflection — Eight,  One 
—Three— Zero— F.  A.  shell— I.  A.  L.  fuse- 
Charge  double  zero — Site  zero — One  hundred 

192 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

rounds — At  my  command — Elevation  five,  six 
three,"  shouted  the  executive  officer. 

There  was  grim  silence  in  the  gun-pits.  A 
shell  came  tearing  over  and  hit  fifty  yards 
from  the  first  piece.  Fragments  and  stones 
pattered  down  through  the  trees. 

"F— I— R— E!"  was  the  command. 

Four  flashes  illuminated  the  night  shadows 
and  four  guns  loosened  their  brass  tongues 
of  thunder.  The  ground  rocked.  The  air 
quivered.  The  pieces  bayed  and  roared  on 
like  mad,  fire-spitting  animals.  Joining  their 
voices  in  the  savage  symphony  of  death 
that  filled  the  woods  they  crowded  that  par- 
ticular part  of  the  world  with  an  infernal 
clamor. 

Down  in  the  cozy  mire  of  their  gun-pit 
Jimmy  McGee  and  his  gang  worked  hands 
over  fists  to  keep  Betsy  roaring.  Almost  ten 
months  on  the  line  had  made  them  indifferent 
to  enemy  fire,  especially  if  they  were  fighting 
back,  so  they  labored  on  while  the  Hun  mis- 
siles came  tearing  overhead,  spilling  their 
contents  of  death  dangerously  near. 

O.  D.,  working  directly  behind  Jimmy,  mar- 
veled at  his  pal's  coolness  in  adjusting  sights 
and  elevations,  unconscious  of  the  fact  that 

193 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

he  was  almost  as  cool  in  Ms  own  work  as 
Jimmy. 

An  explosion  more  terrific  than  any  previ- 
ous one  shook  the  entire  vicinity  of  the  bat- 
tery position.  After  the  crash  of  bursting 
steel  and  iron  had  ended  agonized  cries  were 
torn  from  the  throats  of  suffering  men. 
Piteous  pleadings  for  aid  filled  the  flame-shot 
night.  Above  the  groans  that  were  racked 
by  pain  a  voice  called  out,  "First  piece  out 
of  order,  sir."  A  fit  of  coughing  followed 
the  report. 

Spare  men  and  the  two  Sanitary  Corps  men 
rushed  to  the  pit  of  the  first  section  where 
the  shell  had  landed  and  demolished  the 
gun  while  tearing  the  crew  into  lifeless  or 
quivering  wrecks  of  humans.  Everything 
that  could  be  done  for  the  men  was  accom- 
plished heedless  of  the  incoming  shells. 
Every  moment  brought  an  increasing  number 
of  shells  into  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the 
battery  position.  Trees  were  smashed  and 
chewed  to  bits.  Earth  was  thrown  high  into 
the  air.  Tree  branches  mingled  with  the  shell 
splinters  that  rained  down. 

"Second  section  out  of  order,  sir,"  shouted 
the  chief  of  that  section.  His  gunner  had 
reported  that  the  bore  would  not  stand  an- 

194 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

other  shot.  The  piece  had  been  recommended 
for  the  mobile  repair  shop  two  weeks  before. 

"  Second  section,  abandon  you  piece.  Take 
cover,'*  ordered  the  executive  officer,  crowd- 
ing data  for  the  third  and  fourth  piece  on 
top  of  that  command. 

Jimmy  McGee's  crew  was  still  putting  them 
over  when  fragments  from  a  shell  that  had 
ruined  the  fourth  section  knocked  his  Nos. 
4  and  6  down.  Short-handed  he  kept  the 
hot  one-hundred-and-fifty-five  howitzer  going. 
O.  D.  was  still  hanging  on  the  rammer  and 
pushing  the  big  shells  in  the  breech. 

Captain  Henderson  rushed  into  the  pit. 

"You  men  take  shelter.  Your  gun's  the 
only  one  left  in  action." 

"Please  don't  make  us  quit,  Pop.  .  Pardon, 
sir.  Shoot  the  dope  along.  We'll  stick,  won't 
we,  0.  D.?" 

"Bet  we  will,  Jimmy!"  shot  back  0.  D., 
grimly,  as  he  helped  his  No.  5  get  the  shell 
on  the  tray. 

The  answer  had  barely  escaped  his  lips 
when  a  shell  made  a  direct  hit  on  a  tree  be- 
hind the  pit.  0.  D.  fell  to  the  ground.  Jim- 
my McGee  sank  down  with  a  stifled  groan. 
The  two  boys  left  in  the  pit  toppled  like  young 
trees  from  the  blow  of  a  mighty  ax. 

195 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

The  captain,  who  was  untouched,  raised 
Jimmy  and  got  his  knee  under  his  head. 

"Get  Bacon  or  March,  the  first-aid  men, 
quick!"  commanded  the  captain  to  a  man  who 
was  stumbling  over  the  debris  in  the  pit. 

"Both  of  'em  are  down,  sir;  got  hit.  The 
boys  are  havin'  a  hell  of  a  time  with  the 
wounded."  The  man  stooped  to  pick  up  Dick 
Dennis,  who  had  been  killed  outright. 

"My  God!"  groaned  Henderson,  tearing 
away  Jimmy's  blouse  to  get  at  his  wounded 
arm. 

"Cap — cap,"  called  Jim,  feebly.  Hender- 
son bent  over  him.  "I've  only  got  a  splinter 
- — only  stunned.  Get  to  0.  D.  first."  Jimmy 
tried  to  get  loose  and  go  to  0.  D.,  who  lay 
quiet  in  a  pool  of  blood. 

"Johnson — Johnson,  try  to  bind  0.  D.'s 
wound,"  ordered  the  C.  0.,  turning  to  a  man 
who  sat  all  huddled  up  amid  the  horror  and 
torture,  puffing  wildly  at  a  cigarette  like  some 
grotesque  being. 

"Can't  touch  him,"  answered  Johnson, 
blowing  a  mouthful  of  smoke  after  the  jerky 
words.  "God  have  mercy  on  me,"  he  kept  re- 
peating. The  fellow's  nerve  was  gone.  Hen- 
derson had  seen  a  few  like  him  before.  He 
let  him  alone. 

196 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

Jimmy  crawled  to  0.  D. 

«0.  D.— 0.  D.!  Talk  to  me!  God!  Look 
at  his  back;  it's  all  busted  up.  0.  D.,  I'm 
Jimmy.  Answer  me,  boy,"  implored  his  pal. 

Henderson  came  with  a  mess-cup  full  of 
water  and  some  bandages. 

The  water  brought  0.  D.  to  a  state  of  semi- 
consciousness.  Jimmy  saw  his  eyes  flutter 
open  about  half-way  and  he  started  talking 
again. 

"We're  fixin'  you,  boy — hang  on.  The 
Boches  never  was  made  to  get  you  and  me. 
We  got  to  go  back  to  Mary,  0.  D." 

"Jimmy — Jimmy — "  The  name  was  called 
so  faintly  that  Jimmy  could  hardly  hear  it. 
He  bent  his  ear  close  to  0.  D.'s  blue  lips. 

"I'm  listenin',  pal.     What  is  it!" 

"You  go  back — back — back — to  Mary 
for — "  The  words  trembled  and  stopped  short. 

"For  you,  0.  D.?"  supplied  Jimmy. 

"Oui,"  gasped  the  dying  boy. 

"But  you'll  go,  too,  0.  D.  Hell,  you  can't 
die  now." 

' '  Yes — die — later — see  you — somewhere — 
Good-by,  Jim — "  Death  cut  the  words  short. 

A  great  lump  rose  in  Jimmy  McGee's 
throat.  Something  warm  and  salty  burned  his 
eyes.  He  pressed  his  good  hand  against  the 

197 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

torn  back  of  his  pal  and  tried  to  staunch  the 
incessant  red  flow  with  his  fingers.  Captain 
Henderson  removed  him  tenderly  from  the 
body  of  his  pal  a  few  moments  later  and  led 
Jimmy,  dry-eyed  and  white-faced,  over  to  the 
dressing-station. 

"Just  the  way  of  it,  cap.  The  best  guys 
gets  it.  Poor  0.  D. !"  muttered  Jimmy  as 
they  bound  up  his  splintered  arm. 

They  buried  0.  D.  in  a  shell-hole  and  wrap- 
ped his  body  in  the  blankets  and  shelter- 
halves  that  he  and  Jimmy  had  slept  between. 
Jimmy  looked  at  the  sad  mound  of  earth  and 
then  let  them  take  him  away  to  the  ambu- 
lance that  was  to  bring  him  and  two  others 
down  to  the  echelon  infirmary.  His  wound 
was  not  deemed  serious  enough  for  hospital 
treatment. 


XVII 

"FINEE!     LA  GUERRE  FINEE!" 

IN  the  somber  shadow  of  gaunt,  historic  Ver- 
dun the  eleventh  day  of  the  eleventh  month 
of  1918  crawled  slowly  toward  its  epoch- 
making  eleventh  hour.  The  progress  of  each 
advancing  minute  was  accompanied  by  a 
bombardment  that  started  in  a  rumbling  bas- 
so-profoundo  of  fourteen-inch  naval  guns  and 
reached  its  crescendo  of  barbaric  medley  in  a 
crackling  cataract  of  machine-gun  fire. 

"You  can't  tell  me  that  this  guerre  is  goin' 
to  finee  toot  sweet,"  asserted  Jimmy  McGee 
to  an  infirmary  orderly.  "Listen  to  that 
hell-bent-for-election  noise.'*  He  paused  to 
allow  himself  and  the  orderly  to  appreciate 
the  significance  of  his  assertion. 

Both  had  grown  accustomed  to  the  thunder 
of  barrages  and  the  din  of  battles,  but  their 
ears  were  not  listening  to  any  ordinary  bom- 
bardment. Their  pals  in  arms  were  putting 
over  the  heaviest  artillery  fusillade  that  had 
ever  made  the  base  of  Verdun's  brave  citadel 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

tremble.  The  noise  was  magnificent  and  awe- 
inspiring.  The  men  held  their  tongues  awhile. 
Then  Jimmy  spoke. 

"Maybe  it's  possible,  but  I  doubt  it.  How 
the  hell  can  they  stop  a  thing  like  this  guerre 
so  quick?" 

"Damn  if  I  know.  Sounds  like  bull  to  me, 
but  the  radio  order  says  that  we  stop  fightin' 
at  eleven  o'clock.  That's  all  I  know,"  an- 
swered the  orderly. 

"I'm  going  to  breeze  'round  a  bit.  If  it's 
straight  dope  I'll  blow  up  to  the  position. 
Want  to  get  a  picture  of  0.  D.'s  grave. 
Camouflage  me  if  any  of  them  guys  get  won- 
derin'  where  I  am.  The  old  wing's  gettin' 
ires-loon  now,  anyhow.  They  might  just  as 
well  let  me  go  back  to  the  battery,"  and 
Jimmy  took  his  bandaged  left  arm  out  of  its 
sling  just  to  prove  his  words. 

"Go  on,  I'll  cover  you  up,"  said  the  orderly. 

Jimmy  wandered  through  the  different  bar- 
racks of  the  regimental  echelon  and  finally 
landed  at  Headquarters  Office. 

"What's  the  dope,  Barney?"  asked  Jimmy 
of  a  bespectacled  sergeant  who  sat  humped 
over  a  desk  full  of  morning  reports. 

"The  guerre  is  finee  at  eleven  o'clock,"  was 
the  answer  in  slow,  methodic  tones. 
200 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

' 'Guess  it's  straight  enough  if  Barney  be- 
lieves it,"  muttered  Jimmy,  closing  the  door. 

He  found  Joyce,  borrowed  a  pocket  camera 
from  him,  and  started  for  the  front.  Jimmy 
evaded  Verdun  and  picked  the  straight  road 
from  Thierville  to  Bras.  From  Bras  he  in- 
tended following  the  muddy  trail  that  led 
directly  to  the  present  position  of  his  outfit. 

A  continuous  stream  of  nondescript  traffic 
flowed  past  him  going  in  the  direction  of  the 
echelons.  Captured  Boche  wagons,  ammuni- 
tion limbers,  ration-trucks,  caissons,  staff 
cars,  and  ambulances  were  some  of  the 
vehicles  that  passed  Jimmy  as  he  plodded 
along.  Their  presence  on  the  road  at  ten- 
thirty  in  the  morning  was  a  significant  thing 
in  itself.  He  knew  that  such  heavy  traffic 
was  forbidden  on  roads  that  were  under 
enemy  fire  during  the  hours  of  daylight.  But 
the  rattle  and  clatter  of  the  motley  traffic 
could  not  drown  out  the  fury  of  the  Ameri- 
can bombardment. 

"Well,  it's  finee,  old  man,"  shouted  a  man 
in  fatigue  clothes  riding  a  balky  mule. 

"Oui,"  responded  Jimmy,  unenthusiastic- 
ally. 

At  Bras  Jimmy  stopped  at  one  of  the  am- 

14  201 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

bulance  stations  to  watch  them  load  on  some 
boys  who  had  just  been  wounded. 

"Where  the  hell  are  you  bound.  The 
guerre's  finee." 

Jimmy  looked  at  the  speaker.  He  was  Mike 
Merrowitz,  of  his  own  outfit. 

"Goin'  up  to  the  battery.  What  the  hell 
did  you  do  to  your  arm,  Mike?" 

"Nothin'  much.  Was  mendin*  a  broken 
wire  early  this  mornin'  and  a  piece  of  shell 
got  me  there.  Doc  said  they  might  have  to 
cut  it  off  at  the  elbow.  But  I  don't  believe 
it's  that  bad.  Remember  my  tellin'  you  that 
I'd  go  through  this  guerre  and  get  walloped 
on  the  last  day?  Well,  the  damn  thing  is 
finee,  anyhow.  Take  care,  Jimmy,"  he  ad- 
monished, looking  at  his  bandaged  arm. 

Jimmy  McGee  could  only  nod  his  answer. 
The  idea  that  a  man  could  go  through  the 
war  as  long  as  Mike  had  and  then  get  hit 
during  the  last  minute  of  play  was  beyond 
him.  He  began  wondering  if  it  was  all  a  mis- 
take about  the  guerre  being  finished.  The 
banging  of  the  guns  certainly  didn't  help 
him  to  renew  his  faith  in  all  the  statements 
that  he  had  heard  to  the  effect  that  fight- 
ing would  end  at  eleven  o'clock. 

202 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

It  was  exactly  ten-forty-five  when  he  started 
out  on  the  second  lap  of  his  trip. 

"Fifteen  minutes  to  make  good  in,"  mut- 
tered Jimmy  to  himself. 

Along  the  sides  of  the  slimy  trail  strange 
things  were  happening.  Men  began  to  ap- 
pear on  the  surface.  Horses  and  mules 
browsed  around,  hunting  for  a  green  patch 
of  grass. 

"What  time  have  you  got,  buddy?"  asked 
Jimmy  of  a  man  who  was  stripped  to  the 
waist  and  washing  in  an  honest  attempt  to 
remove  some  of  the  dirt  that  had  accumulated 
on  his  body  since  the  wash  of  two  months 
ago. 

The  man  stopped  and  picked  up  his  wrist 
watch.  "Five  minutes  before  knocking-off 
time,  Jack,"  was  the  casual  reply. 

"Five  minutes,'*  repeated  Jimmy  McGee, 
doubtfully.  "Say,  do  you  think  it'll  finee  at 
eleven?"  he  asked. 

"Sure,"  was  the  confident  reply.  "It 
started  in  ten  minutes;  why  the  hell  can't  it 
end  in  a  few  minutes?" 

"Guess  it  can,  but  it  seems  funny  as  hell 
to  talk  'bout  the  guerre  endin'.  Why,  there's 
been  times  lately  when  I  thought  the  damn 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

thing  would  never  finee,"  stated  Jimmy,  very 
solemnly. 

"It  will  be  strange  to  have  it  all  finished. 
But  I  can  get  along  without  it.  Say,  I  won- 
der when  the  hell  we'll  go  home,  Jack?" 

"Great  God!  I'd  never  thought  of  that. 
If  this  guerre  finees  to-day  we  ought  to  get  a 
crack  at  the  first  boats.  Been  over  here  long 
enough.  Can  you  imagine  gettin'  back  to  the 
old  life,  wearin'  garters  and  stuff  like  that?" 

"Too  much  for  me,  Jack,"  admitted  the 
man  as  he  scrubbed  away. 

The  bombardment  seemed  just  in  the  act 
of  flinging  all  of  its  violence  into  their  ears 
when  the  roar  of  cannon  and  the  shrieking  of 
shells  toned  down  to  a  puny  whisper.  A  few 
seconds  of  scattered  "booms"  passed.  Then 
a  silence  unknown  to  that  part  of  the  world 
settled  over  the  vicinity  of  Verdun. 

The  guns  of  war  had  been  hushed  as  if  by 
the  magic  command  of  some  invisible  master 
voice. 

Jimmy  and  the  man  looked  at  each  other, 
stunned  into  dumbness  by  the  miracle  of 
silence.  Five  minutes  passed  in  strange 
quietude. 

I'll  blow  up  to  tlie  guns  a.n.3  gee 
264 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

how  the  boys  are  takin'  this  stuff,"  said 
Jimmy,  slowly. 

"Well,  it's  finee,  sure  as  hell,"  declared 
the  man.  He  was  reading  his  shirt  and 
snapping  his  catches  between  thumb-nails. 

"So  long,  bud;  I'll  meet  you  in  Boston," 
was  Jimmy's  parting  shot. 

"In  Boston,  eh?"  replied  the  man  as  if  a 
new  and  pleasing  idea  had  occurred  to  him. 
"Ouir-m  Boston." 

The  pockmarked  hills  that  sloped  down  to 
meet  the  trail  and  mingle  muddy  rivulets  with 
the  slimy  water  that  stagnated  in  its  shell- 
holes  took  on  a  new  lease  of  life  as  Jimmy 
surveyed  them.  Dark  rings  of  smoke  curled 
upward.  The  forms  of  men  and  animals  be- 
gan to  appear,  slowly  at  first,  as  if  the  bowels 
of  the  earth  were  giving  up  their  recent  in- 
habitants with  great  reluctance.  Gradually 
whole  processions  of  men  moved  against  the 
horizons  made  by  the  dip  and  rise  of  Ver- 
dun's storied  hills.  Mules  and  horses  scam- 
pered at  liberty  and  joined  their  braying 
and  neighing  with  the  sounds  of  human  life 
that  were  heard  in  the  great  silence  that  ob- 
tained. 

Turning  an  abrupt  curve  Jimmy  McGee  was 
almost  upon  his  battery.  Even  Jimmy,  who 
205 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

had  grown  to  believe  that  he  had  seen  every 
sight  that  the  front  could  offer,  admitted  that 
the  scene  before  him  was  unusual. 

Humans  and  creatures  who  had  been 
spending  most  of  the  last  two  months  below 
the  surface  were  breathing  God's  free  air 
once  more  without  risking  their  lives  by  so 
doing.  Men  in  undershirts,  some  without  any, 
most  all  of  them  bareheaded,  were  stretching, 
washing,  shaving,  talking,  and  doing  many 
other  simple  and  ordinary  things  as  if  they 
were  all  undergoing  a  novel  experience. 
There  was  not  a  clean-faced  man  in  the 
crowd. 

The  four  guns  that  had  been  participating 
in  the  final  barrage  of  the  war  stood  in  their 
crude  emplacements  like  stage-settings  in  a 
scene  that  had  been  deserted  by  all  of  the 
actors.  They  looked  forlorn  and  lonely  in 
their  abandonment. 

Equipment,  most  of  it  soiled,  stained,  and 
rusty,  was  piled  in  little  heaps.  A  batch  of 
rations  had  been  uncovered  and  lay  exposed 
to  the  possibility  of  unlawful  seizure,  as 
guards  were  a  nonentity.  Smoke  issued  from 
a  field  range  that  was  in  operation.  The 
rattle  of  mess-kits  announced  the  fact  that 
the  small  line  of  men  who  had  formed  for 
mess  were  hungry. 

20C 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

Jimmy  made  for  a  group  of  men  who  were 
standing  around  a  bucket  of  water,  waiting 
their  turn  to  wash. 

"Hello,  Sammy;  how's  the  boy?"  asked 
McGee  of  a  short,  stocky  lad  in  the  waiting 
line  of  toilet-makers. 

"Bon,  Jimmy,"  responded  Sampson. 
"What  do  you  think  of  this  guerre  being 


"Gosh!    I  can  hardly  believe  it." 

"I  keep  thinking  that  it's  liable  to  start 
up  any  old  time,"  admitted  Sammy. 

"Are  you  goin'  down  to  the  echelon,  Sam- 
my?" 

"Oui,  toot  sweet.  Wait  till  I  get  a  ton 
of  this  dirt  off  and  I'll  hike  along  with  you." 

"All  right,  I'm  goin'  to  look  'round  just  a 
bit.  Will  see  you  at  the  kitchen." 

"Trey-beans." 

Jimmy  toured  the  position  and  inspected 
his  Betsy. 

"Well,  old  girl,  you're  finee  now,"  he  said, 
patting  the  barrel  of  his  faithful  piece  affec- 
tionately. 

He  talked  with  all  the  boys  he  met.  The 
one  big  question  that  they  put  to  him  was, 
"Know  when  we  go  home,  Jimmy?"  But 

207 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

that  was  a  query  beyond  his  power  to  answer. 
A  few  hinted  that  the  division  might  be  sent 
into  Germany  as  a  part  of  the  Army  of  Occu- 
pation. These  suggestions  were  routed  by 
indignant  denial  of  such  a  possibility. 

"They'll  never  send  this  outfit  to  Ger- 
many. We're  slated  for  home.  Let  them  guys 
that  just  got  over  here  take  a  crack  at  that 
stuff,"  snapped  Pop  Rigney. 

Later,  after  they  had  mess,  Jimmy  and 
Sammy  started  cross-country  for  Thierville 
so  that  they  might  pass  0.  D.'s  grave  and 
make  a  picture  of  it. 

Jimmy  found  the  mound  of  earth  that  cov- 
ered the  mortal  remains  of  his  pal,  and  after 
arranging  the  helmet  on  the  crude  little 
cross  he  photographed  the  grave  and  walked 
away  with  the  remark,  "0.  D.  was  sure  one 
white  man,  Sammy." 

They  continued  in  silence  until  the  out- 
skirts of  Verdun  were  reached. 

"Gee!  there's  something  goin'  on  in  town," 
declared  Sammy. 

The  sound  of  pealing  bells  and  stirring 
music  reached  their  ears.  They  quickened 
their  step.  Cheering  and  shouts  sounded 
above  the  music. 

A   bearded   poilu    came   tearing   out   of    a 

208 


'A   BEARDED  POILTT  CAME  TEARING  OUT  OP  A  RUINED  HOUSE, 
WAVING  A   BOTTLE   OVER  HIS   HEAD1' 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

ruined  house,  waving  a  bottle  over  his  head. 

"Finee!  La  guerre  finee!"  he  shouted,  and 
offered  them  the  bottle.  They  drank  and 
shouted  back: 

"Oui.    Finee.    Hurrah!" 

The  grizzled  poilu  and  the  two  Americans 
sallied  down  the  narrow  <street  to  locate 
the  music.  Progress  became  difficult  after  the 
trio  reached  one  of  the  main  streets.  Soldiers 
— for  there  were  very  few  civilians  residing 
in  the  battered  remnants  of  Verdun — piled  out 
of  every  doorway  and  alley,  most  of  them 
singing  and  shouting.  Finally,  after  stopping 
to  drink  the  success  of  the  armistice  with  at 
least  ten  different  parties  of  poilus  and  Yanks, 
Jimmy,  Sammy,  and  their  new  friend  found 
themselves  in  the  square  where  a  parade  was 
forming. 

A  hastily  organized  band  crashed  out  the 
stirring  music  of  "Quand  Madelon."  The 
mob  cheered  itself  into  action  and  started  off 
behind  the  band.  Flags,  mostly  American, 
waved  above  the  surging  crowds.  Another 
band,  half  American  and  half  French,  swung 
into  the  square  playing  the  "Marseillaise." 
Then  "The  Star-Spangled  Banner"  brought 
a  thunderous  volley  of  applause. 

"La  guerre  c'est  finie,"  was  the  predomi- 

209 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

nating  cry.  "Vivent  les  Americains!"  was 
the  second  in  strength. 

Most  of  the  demonstrations  came  from  the 
throats  of  the  French  whose  natural  dramatic 
and  emotional  temperament  responded  to  the 
occasion  more  quickly  than  did  the  less  dem- 
onstrative make-ups  of  the  Yankee  soldiers. 
But  it  was  only  natural  that  the  French 
should  have  indulged  in  greater  feelings  and 
demonstrations  than  their  brothers  in  arms, 
the  Americans,  for  they  had  borne  the  yoke 
of  war  years  longer.  It  was  wonderful  to 
see  the  worn  lines  on  veteran  poilu  faces  as 
their  sternness  relaxed  in  smiles  and  laughs. 

Jimmy  and  Sammy  found  themselves  drink- 
ing wine  and  other  liquors  with  many  strange 
men.  The  password  to  good-fellowship  was 
"Finee,  la  guerre  finee,"  and  when  the  liquor 
began  to  assert  itself  in  the  blood  of  the  men 
who  acclaimed  the  Allied  triumph  on  the 
streets  of  Verdun  good-fellowship  reached  its 
zenith. 

That  night  the  men  of  Jimmy's  section  were 
gathered  around  a  cheery-looking  beer  keg  in 
a  comfortable  barrack  at  Thierville  hashing 
over  the  guerre  and  its  swift  dramatic  denoue- 
ment. The  flight  of  the  Kaiser  and  the 
downfall  of  his  military  empire  had  dwindled 
210 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

into  a  meaningless  fact  before  the  expanding 
idea  of  an  early  departure  for  home. 

"Home!  Great  Lord,  it  ain't  possible!" 
ejaculated  one  man  as  he  looked  wistfully  into 
the  blazing  fire  that  roared  up  a  great  open 
fireplace.  A  bit  of  silence  followed  on  the 
heels  of  his  remark.  Then  Limy  Mills  and 
Vine  started  singing  the  chorus  of  "There's  a 
Long,  Long  Trail  Awinding."  Twenty- 
throats,  unsteady  from  an  emotion  that  was 
new  and  yet  old,  joined  in  the  singing. 

Jimmy  McGee,  sitting  in  a  far  corner  of  the 
room,  looked  up  from  the  letter  that  he  was 
writing  to  Mary  0.  D.  and  listened  while  a 
strange  yearning  for  something  that  the  song 
suggested  mastered  his  feelings. 

Four  days  later  Jimmy  McGee 's  outfit 
rolled  down  the  "Sacred  Koad"  of  France. 
No  officer  or  enlisted  man  knew  its  destina- 
tion. All  that  any  man  could  be  certain  of 
was  that  he  was  headed  for  the  rear. 

Jimmy,  lacking  a  roll  and  stripped  of  sun- 
dry  equipments  that  he  had  carried  over  the 
same  road  three  months  before,  followed  be- 
hind his  Betsy. 

"What  outfit,  buddy?'*  asked  an  engineer 
who  leaned  on  his  shovel  to  watch  the  decrepit 
parade  pas?, 

m 


WHAT  OUTFIT,  BUDDY? 

" Twenty-sixth  division,"  answered  Jimmy. 

"You  guys  are  goin'  home  toot  siveet,  ain't 
you!"  questioned  the  engineer. 

"So  they  tell  us,  buddy,"  responded  the 
Yankee  veteran  as  a  man  does  who  speaks 
from  another  world.  His  thoughts  were  four 
thousand  miles  away,  they  stretched  across 
the  ocean  and  reached  a  certain,  slender 
somebody  who  answered  the  name  of  Mary 
0.  D.  in  the  thoughts  of  Jimmy  McGee. 

"Gee!  It  sure  will  be  tough  tryin'  to  tell 
her  and  her  mother  'bout  0.  D.  I  wonder 
what  Mary '11  think  of  me,"  and  Jimmy  McGee 
trudged  along  to  accept  the  future,  even  as 
he  had  accepted  the  guerre. 


THE  END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


MAR  2  9  1991 

NON-RENEWAbLE 

JAN  2  9  1992 

DUE  2  WKS  FROM  DATE  RECEIVED 
IfcCT)  LD-URT 

MAR  2  5  1992 
7  3  ?003 


315 


Ill  Mill   I 
)6  010  3( 


